violence
It feels like death, here.
Fortunately, she likes things best when they’re dead. Violence is not bothered by the quiet, by the way her footfalls are overly loud, pounding the dry earth and leaving shadows in her wake. She is not bound to anyone, to anything, and so she looks for no lost souls, only ahead, into these seemingly endless paths that she walks.
The silence is broken with the clattering of bones – her dear puppet, an animated mishmash of things she has found and shaped into something vaguely equid, though there aren’t many equine bones to be found, in the thing. It is her most loved creation,
(And even it, occasionally, is damaged. Bones break so easily. But it is easy to remake, she builds and rebuilds it, her companion and her ship of Theseus, all in one.)
(Her son – filth of her loins – had not been so easy to bold, so pliable. He had broken her creation in anger, or stupidity. It had not been hard to leave him.)
And so this is what noise fills the meadow – the thud of her footfalls, the clatter of bones as the thing moves behind her. It feels, to her, like a kingdom.
Through this nomad kingdom she moves, her direction aimless, air stale in her lungs. She thinks, briefly, of speaking – of shouting something out, or maybe simply screaming – but for now, she is content with nothing louder than the endless music of the bones.
these violent delights bring violent ends
feeling bad from my COVID booster and ate an edible. now this.