Mundus, mundus, mundus...as much as you've lightened your material burden, you're nevertheless immersed into the free-flowing earth. Free to move about as you please, wandering, ambling, wayward and lostless. How you've now cast your wings into disrepair for more solid limbs that manage little more than to support, create, and reap. Your creations have grown too cunning, too reputable.

Out from these hands set the world a-turn, and with careless motion torn asunder. Thereby, snapped up into your own waiting jaws, as the most tangible thing to consume would be one's own self. And so you fed upon those portions, never thinking it'd pass right through like any other finite meal, desiccated and discarded.

You've claimed to be wayward and on the decline for years now, watching the imperfections in cast glass slowly cascade down the blunt edge of a lifetime. The world falls harder underfoot, despite more assured steps. You seem to think all that was still is, away and afar in those threaded worlds lit by a fierce notion. But only mammels hibernate, so you either chose your metaphor unwisely or all too well.

Cold and calculating may be par for survival, but are still mortal mannerisms. The fire and the flight completes the frame of mind, this image alight and aloft. The idols you've carved have been whittled of their details to mere splinters, and the arc now bears familarity. As all this comes full-circle, there must be a formless void from start to stagnate. That which has emerged from shall be cast back in.

Triads and the trappings they impart...you've so far brought two elements to the forefront, endlessly interwoven in patterns now cryptic to your own self. And so you contemplate the intricate mosaic as would anyone else behind velvet ropes. Though the forthright awareness has ebbed in memory, perhaps you saw this all from the start, when it began to unfold. So illustrated and conscious that it couldn't possibly occur later on, no less unrecognized.

The archetype of the dragon imparts a trandscendence over worldly cycles; the ability to revive itself over grevious and oft-fatal wounds, even death assured. A greater balance is enacted upon a barbed tail. Ever on the mend, wings submerge into brackish pools to membrane anew. The earth continues in its solidity, as lamed, graspless arms clutch at the underside of its skeleton.

In time, as ever before, one shall descend into the sky, with former husks cast off like flakes of oxidized iron. Flaws and cracks cannot be undone, moreover seen to their timely severance. To what endures, a perfect obsidian sphere, hollow only to those who place no sight within. Feigned to be barren and featureless, striations enact like techtonic plates beneath glassy waters. Solidity is an allusion.