A year ago was the last time I attempted reaching out. Since then, I have only had the occasional, potent dream.
You are here somewhere, amidst the throng of worshipers, followers, others who have had success inside the pyramid. I have just discovered my own walls closing in again; the inexorable quietude sinking into my skin, the assuredness that time will pass on unto the immemorial, with solitude presiding over the full arc of time.
There are others like you, others who have been absolved, dissolved into the din of silence, leaving me with a salt on my skin, twining smells of graphite and cumin, a prickling of the nose and eyes.
Somewhere-- very near, yet very far-- you all pass on; a fear grows from the silence, unmitigated and perhaps aggravated, by the endless, clamoring noise of the squalor that is a life, being. I have traveled distances, yet have realized no displacement. There is a zero point in between every hot breath, whether it fall on a lover's neck, encountering the pulse of a stranger-- though human, and grimy like the rest, rimed in sweat-- or into an endless space: receivers and transmitters of consciousness its anchor point.
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