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Reinception

Stalking dark in precocious night, the cicada sings its swan song. It knows not the world it is in, and yet it knows that's shifting. It closes its eyes, and opens a third. Digital snarls rack its psyche, and his pointed legs turn gold in the image of Midas. The dark is broken. The bug is gone.

Somewhere, the spiritual flame ignites. Can we leave lodgements behind?



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