MATTER THAT MOVES

There was water up top the quick and light cast scathing down on ankle cuts and toes splayed out and hanging. Hollow walls of stone making noises under the city screaming roses from above. And he sat there and he watched and waited and heard a voice.

“Tell me.”

He sat down in the water cold and splintered off in the distance, the tunnels going on and in. He listened a little more.

“Tell me.”

Deep below the rest of them was he, in tunnel walls and water sent miles beneath to sit and wait and listen.

“What should I tell?”

Drips from stalactites and light cast dimly, shimmered and split off the cue to just remember what it was to tell.

“What makes you?”

The droplets could have said that for all the effect and all the change and scene. A yawning buffet off the side of the chasm sent its heart outward, till the catacombs were alight with the sounds and sear.

“Me.”

That must be enough. But the stalagmites said otherwise as their calcium split round and gave off ethereal colors, shapes, and hues.

“No it doesn’t. What makes you?”

The walls sucked in their stomach and held their breath. The air hung perilously thick and gathered into moss when it got to the lungs.

“Why can’t I see you?”

“Answer.”

“Who are you?”

The walls exhaled a time and wine slipped spreading on the fountain to his right. There was no time to time.

“Matter makes me.”

“I’ve enough matter as it is. Why does your matter matter?”

He noticed the man with the trunked face sitting beside him, all smiles and gaiety and the water was drawing norm warm.

“But I’m matter that moves.”

A snort and a laugh from the trunk of the man of the tunnel of the chasm of the catacombs of the

“A neat trick. But I’ve seen it. Give us another reason.”

The trunk said another, and the colors were swooning their imbued hues beneath cavelight that drew near each eye and nose.

“I can think. And reason. And wonder. And dream.”

“And a great good it’s done your lot.”

A great good. A great good said the trunk and now he was seeing the sounds in the darkness, not wondering but knowing as they came along.

“Where am I?”

His legs were up on the ceiling of the cave, sent spiraling down and again and whoop watch your head before the rain comes again.

“I am who am.”

“Why can’t I see you?”

His eyes were in the trunk, being swirled and spun around as the void split one way and another. Branches came from the trunk that was a trunk.

“Either you’ll come back again or you’ll be gone forever. Either way you can’t stay. Either way it’ll all move on with or without you. In twenty thousand years you’ll be not even a name.”

“Then why say anything?”

The buds were up and gilded on the crest, the waves of the cave spent and washed of company. The dark voice came to resonate within the matter that moved.

“Does there have to be a reason? Tell me.”

Wilt.

“Tell me.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

Flower.

“Give yourself the reason.”

The trunk was gone, and the cave went alight and shining splendor, ripped and rapt clean from the stomached walls. The light came even there and lit up the dark voice.

“Wake up and find your way.”

“Wake up.”

“Wake up.”

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