Sussurus

At first it’s a formless realm of shadows, some darker than others, and there’s a sense of a massive presence near, like when a ship appears quietly in the night. Long before the sun rises the landscape blues, and the folds of the granulated Earth emerge like some great naked body you’re climbing over, in which you are ankle-deep, and so part of, you alone among the dessicated particles, a container of particles yourself, saturated and charged; you can almost feel them desperately desirous of your moisture, the silica that’s stuck in your eyelashes and your teeth. All you hear is hissing, a sussurus of specks, and your own labored breathing, when the light starts racing across the crests and it pulls the troughs up to create the illusion of waveforms, moving, a sea of ambers, a great sigh of light and the whole thing is suddenly revealed, a waterless ocean, slowed down to starfish speed. That’s what it’s like.

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