WE

The swirling grayness. Bathing everything in its image. Swallowing and vomiting things. Marking them. Like a giant robot hand in a giant factory in a giant wasteland. Which lifts tiny, lifeless, helpless objects and transforms them into its own children. We are children of the greyness. A pale shadow of it. We cannot taste nearly as sludgy. We cannot smell nearly as noxious. We cannot feel nearly as cold. We cannot see nearly as far. We cannot hear nearly as loud. We are born with defects. Conceived orphan, we are illegitimate children.

Blood rushes in. From a maroon to a red to a crimson. One eats the other. No mouth swallows. Nothing is gulped. Like a tiny ribbon twisted once and joined at the ends. Which does not know any side of itself. We are the infinite sides of the ribbon. Travelling through one, joining another, emerging a third. We are the maroons, the reds, the crimsons. We are the bitter, the sour, the sweet. We are the loud, the soft, the sonorous. We are the noxious, the sickening, the fragrant. We are the frigid, the warm, the melting. We throb. We become everything. Everything becomes us. We are not born.