god cant save you; their changes are to broad - their domain is only the algorithm - the seed. what grows from it: the implied, virtual fold-out reality where we exist, is all effect - god is the cause and only that. we are alone in being the effect.
The witch (the huntress): she is nimble, but she has spikes. Inside it's a velveteen mesh of tendons, outside decorated by the three sharpest stones ever brought forth from the inner earth.
She holds her shadow in her hand.
She treads against the soft skyscraper roof, vines covering the white ceramics. Shakes the light off her, moving like a crease in the air, some swell vapour bend. Moving quick, running over rooftiles, kicking them loose... running past the animal, circling around it. "creature", but "animal" carries with it a royalty
Her lineage is old, and she is one of the inheritors of the forest, without knowing what it means, what the forest once was. But in recent years the trees have grown better than she's ever seen: they're overtaking the cities that had forever expanded, eroded, displaced (pressed into a solid point, a diamond of hyper-competitive parks, all soul wrung out). except not, and the parks are now exploding, thrusting their hidden information into the world.
There's a bridge going north, once the more rural half of a road carrying sheep home at sunset, even back then half overtaken with ivy, and now with slower speices (mosses!) taking over the asphalt, with plenty of water every rain, until the artificial rock is completely eroded. how quickly this actually happens huh?-- - Don't you hate it when your teeth ache? When you wanna just bite into something, anything? When your mouth just wanna feel the pull, the tension when you take hold and tear through muscle? - --
Her team soars behind her, a dozen girls trained (imprinted, even) for this chase. Quicke mouse (roof jumpers), missile carriers, igniters... (all different type of mice)
Together they run across the roofs, through the roof vines. From the leftmost to the rightmost mouse, moving like a wave through the green puddles, disturbed water slowly settling behind them. They're excited, they're staring, their gazes all coalescing on a single point
Today the mice are quicker, descend on the prey first. A few cute bites from them before they are chased away. The elevator repair man, still on the floor, not yet dead. Then he is. The witch towers above, collects his dying soul before it can disperse. Devours it.
Only now arrives werewolf... grudging, bitter that the witch girl is quicker than her, even though she shouldn't be... even though they are not competing. She shouldn't have gotten to him first. The werewolf walks the last stretch, snaps at the gulls on her way, then sits down beside the carcass. Eats it.after a hunt they convene, share viewpoints, spread their knowledge... the house between the church and the parking lot sunk. there are rats in the eastern cellular tower. a few more birds since last - they are moving back...
The witch runs her tongue along her teeth, satisfied with their shape, how sharp they are. Pricks her tongue, draws blood, manifests the deep end - carried within / now called without - the eaten soul of the caught prey is hovering above, the symbol, the feast is entering her ears - and she is at once one with the great dance, the movement of a thousand bodies.
Her mice from before, then nimble and rapid, now acting as batteries, powering her ascent into the biological meshnet, into the broadcasted dream sludge of every good animal...
A robot is being spawned by the city. She is an expert marksman. She is on her way to get you. You're afraid, since she knows you, since she knows you like no other, since while youre always reborn with the memories of those before you and always with the memories of her, mocking, she never dies once. And directly you wait for her. You want her to see you, everyday, to spar with you, (and really) to explore with you.Stonewalker, mosswalker (honorary, not really), carrier of the destiny of the hidden door of the top floor of the summer hotel. She steps out with seaweed clinging to her leg hair and the thunder hat covering her eyes. we have aproximately three seconds before the mine detonates, she says, dodging behind the pillars of clay secrets - and her whole port detonates, motherfuckers slung into the wind
The city ends at the sea. Usually the weird mist hides the power plants but on the becaches you just know the horizon is real. And it may carry you over its edge and there'll be a purple cliff.
on the waves on top of the water on top of the sand bank; on top of the silent hill, the grainy top, the concrete slab almost on top of the water... The corporate drone celebrates her lunch break, a vacation she is never actually awarded - here spy hours are free hours, hours best spent imagining new songs -- hours posing questions on that beach
she builds a nexus
and a golden wave spreads outward, electricity carried along the tendrils, sunlight refracted, trees growing stronger along their common fingers, along horse roots, snap, snap, snap, all the fingers cut by dragon jaws, snap, crunch, her fingers.
the whole street explodes, suddenly antenna is rotating my tail is rotating, and so forth, at this time im all starry eyed heart eyed among the pylons...
we have the olive uniforms with the colours of those beore us, one new thread per person, and all of our instruments contain all of us; and they use the power against the ground, against the ghosts from down below with just their torches, and their ghostly stories coming mining up from below...
the love the illusion the whole tubing carrying old missiles out ontop of the cities (the tubing waiking old octopii bringing their tendrils straight into the "theatre of delights" a 2D gallery of foreign speices (nude))
she (robot? octopus?) is a manufacturer of tiny objects, small flowers, a different kind of delight. blows life into them, life which they will later give up in the pursuit of extinguishing something elses. something neat, this kind of protection, the fields of flowers, the cherry blossoms in the air (small AI's).
werewolf, always a sentinel, watching. thinking: my nose travels a few centimeters outside my tent; the spores outside take to my fur and get slowly dissolved, liquified, harvested for energy, thats me: living anemone.
and they (small AI's) get carried straight into the blood and up into my brain;;,,, (normal behaviour...) and here's the map i get from that: mostly useless for my work, very delightful to entertain.
some slow followers arrive (they are just anyone from the old neighbourhoods, she's able to target anyone, but these houses have always belonged to the family; and these people are old heirlooms).
...hands gripping orange jelly, hands spreading cocoa honey over several fields, honey covering my wings as oil spill, collecting sun rays like smoke crystals; the splinters carried among the equator of the hoses of the local pants, different semi-galactic conspiracices with their unlimited sponsors, and between these two blackbars there's 80 beers missing. A hundred if i really wanna. And my underground highest slo mo earth cutting spare awareness; in a small nook, underneath a fine rain tile, white tile, and im making the jump, in the back of my brain there's a damp curtain a great sink why all our thoughts are thrown where the the spark of the fire hidden and burrowed