Cresting each new slithering ridge merely seeks a scalable vastness, as its floor & ceiling match wits to play at their maddening equilibrium. Indeed, even the loose, windswept sands- which are everywhere strewn heavenwards in glittering dissolve- begin to blur the division between the rising dunes & the descending sky. The Lord Sun’s reign suffers no such division.
Shards shine manifold like the fractured identity of adolescence. His string-sewn bag is Adriadne’s, into which he gathers what he’s found.
