“What were you doing for all these years, Z?”
“Its only half of what I was doing, A.”
“And what exactly was that?”
“I was triggering something, like how bloodstreams give rise to maintenance tunnels and trigger lightning storms for sheep or cattle who were caught in each other’s slaughterhouses. You know the ones, built brick by brick by the snags in curiosity. Lesser sages like you, who look like and were appropriately villainized, hovered like solid ghosts in such environments, because apart from the torrential downpour, where its muddied and low-visibility paths were always leading to open graves, there was nowhere else to go.
The solid ghosts got pushed by crowds of fake stars and debris with dirt-stained smiles, down into the black holes they were already destined for. And when it was my turn I began to stare at the moon and eat the soil, not old or sick enough to lay down in fate. But there is trouble with the moon, a great trouble, which caused me the only struggle I would have in my ability to digest death-- like two dreams colliding, or vying for one brain, with one dream being the more appeasing and rewarding. The moon of course, reflects the fatal light of life, and in that thoughtless crossover of light and darkness..
for the first time I could lose my mind,
and actually gain something in return."