The Outpost

The Outpost gets quiet sometimes.  & I’ll use that time to scribble out these signals to you (dear one, abstract as you are).  Sometimes it gets lonely out here at the edge of time & space.  I have to reach out.  We are more than our jobs after all.  & sometimes I just have to reach out.

You see, The Outpost isn’t far away (from you, abstract reader, wherever you are) but it’s somewhere you have to show up to.  You have to seek to arrive.  You have to keep asking to find it again.

& that’s how (many years ago — or was it this morning? — or maybe sometime this week)  I find myself working as Typist #2721FE or “just another dreamer” in this place where the light of every god is indistinguishable from the light of my own.
this place where memory moves like reptilian scales through the cosmic dust storms
this place where the rain tastes like rosewater & the cities are built of ash
this place where the wind takes her due & the black blossoms of rainclouds pantomime ancient stories that slip through the cracks of reality

and call

call you

call us all

to look at the sky

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