I recall a feigning interest ever so slightly as the illusion of solid ground crumbles at my bandaged feet. Slowly at first the echoes of dirt caressing the petrified walls that line the chasm ring like falling ice pellets on fields of freshly frozen snow like stone to glass or hot embers meeting respite among a still shallow puddle of stale blood. This sensation of weightlessness never ceases to chin noxious gas from the depths of the so very starved pits of my soon bloated corpse. Now free-falling, certain senses become heightened as the sound of terrestrial holocaust is distorted by the intense speed in which exposed. At the peak of the highest tide on the night of the ripest full moon. The haves have become should nots and the dids have become done for now is history. This chapter is not settled with a signature by pen but by the size of impact crater that is about to form. Unaware the air would become sharp peeling back my human skin in layers, exposed organics, the connection is deafening to the sound that once surrounded a combination of raw thunder timed to the exact crashing of the waves at the plutonian shores. The once forgotten feeling of solid ground is...