❝𝘿𝘼𝙍𝙇𝙄𝙉𝙂, 𝙔𝙊𝙐𝙍𝙀 𝘼𝙎 𝘿𝙀𝘼𝘿 𝘼𝙎 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝘿𝘼𝙔 𝙄𝙎 𝙇𝙊𝙉𝙂. ❞
↣ A PARADOX IN WHICH
a girl rises and falls
like the Empire of Rome,
knowing not of
what she has gained,
but instead of what
she has los...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
『 Chapter 27 』
⤐ ♤ « 〚♞〛 » ♤ ⬷
The sky was the color of sand dunes and silk ribbons. Angel halos plucked from their crowns and lofted into the empyrean heavens to simulate clouds, and their sweet morning breath of raspberries and mangoes drifting along the horizon like a fog, perfectly. The aura of valentines day in the scorching summer placed soft kisses on skin, leaving sun spots and flowery freckles.
Edges of the world blurred like stained parchment, curling up under the heat from the lit end of a dying cigarette. On the fringes of the atmosphere seemed to be void sectors of a place not yet created, as if the end of the planet dipped down and fell into the vacuum of earth-shattering space. There was nothing outside of this bucolic dwelling; not nothing in the meaning of lack of importance, but instead in the way that there was a lack of anything.
What existed in this halcyon space was a stark, jutting mausoleum shaped from rich, ebony granite with highlights of ivory quartz. Leading up to it was a short set of stairs, solid and clean, not a single crack, chip, or cut, faultlessly preserved. The slope of the hill wasn't steep in the sensical term, but the stairs felt needed, like it was the river styx winding through ambiguity and into the beyond.
Along the outer boundaries of the stairs burgeoned petals of various flowers, mossy stems wrestled out of the earth and into the air. Gladiolus cups dripped in dew drops from April's morning rain while the delilahs sang melodies with the ribbons of wind chimes. It was a simple, rotating pattern, one tall gladioli followed by a blooming, round delilah.
There was an affection she had for delilahs buried under the first layer of her skin, just out of reach from prying eyes. She kept it close to her heart, held captive in the soul-crushing weights of rusted, steel chains in a locked music box. It played the song that the vultures would sing when their return was needed—for wherever they would serenade death would seek.
01001000 01101001 01100100 01100001 01101011 01100001 moved towards the grass, freshly cut but incomplete without sense of smell. It was like it was unfinished, as if the aroma was a detail that had been forgotten to be drawn in by an artist. The lawn was blurrier that the rest of the landscape around her, as if she wasn't intended to focus on it.
That was true, of course. When she brushed her clean fingers along the emerald bristles, what she came away with was not the dew of early sunrises, but instead the deathly cold of ones and zeroes. The binary numbers twinkled back at her with their simplicity, like blinking comets flashing by on New Year's Day. It became clear to her that someone had not finished coding this part of the world.
