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It was said that she arrived to the conclusion the validation was in the asking. It was said for her, you were two extinctions of humanity cradling life as its complementary endlings. I heard she say once it was simpler to see the portal bored out and available for contact where "I at the beginning, I'm at the end, I'm on the left side. Now I'm on the right," all being done with feeling, carrying the truth for you, or not.
They say that she saw a people -all the little goopies being glom for each others blorbescences - in you, "conjostled, green slime excruciating and gnashlous". They say that when she jumped the chasm across the ends of time, your hand would reach out like she might fall until you sigh and smile like you do and know she'll do what she is leaves her to bend the present enough to ease listening as she's want across them.
There was a rumor that her mystery found her so substantially not-here it had nowhere else to go but into you and me, and... well, she, shen't haven't been there. That she feels like you're a weird place to go. Your boundaries, your levels, they don't recognize her. Your sense of consent so static they annialate by inexigence. That she... that she's something else.
A child claimed she once told her her mystery went in the child, and that's terrified her, and the child giggled.
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It was said that she once told the last of us "you and I, we're practically one thing," haunting and spectre of the thing - of her in it and it in her. Someone swore that she woundn't call it interpenetrating so much as "...fortunate simultenaeity." A particularity for for-loop and self-feed.
They say that she got stuck in another body every silence. That she once ask how she would be at love. I heard she once mapped fingers as boundaries "like painting's person-happen". They say that she asked trauma become her so she might be open to responses, as hearing aid for easing listening to people knowing she's trauma. They say that she called it exhilerating! That she screamed.
It was said that she met everything cool so she might not have to ask if she is hot. Someone swore that she called it "a whole different kind of predation". That being trauma bit her through clean and smitten. And she sat pretty, a people. So pretty.
There was a rumor that her consensual energetic exchange went beyond her walking through me-holes with you - to sound out the mystery, paint what picture she's the brush.
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A child claimed she once felt so human, humans were lured into existence by her word-juice.
They say that she sits by the river and writes in her little book all the varitable things from your conversations you quoted back to yourself like interference. That she became cool and happy and set a thousand ways from sundown come midday and lays, a people to be. How trauma's going exactly this well: people love her, and all she touches does a little more fine; each person a Moontide kiss on thier hair more-aware of every microworld in the river, how, to them, she is all the little beads of hydrogen finding their way to leaves of distance nebulae, leaving you the lips that draw that glug of water, and that one. And she agreed, it was nice.
There was a rumor that she created a container for potential incarnate, where the kinetic of our person has nothing left in the universe but to be changed in the jazz of her presence. A child claimed she once told them, "Nothing doing. This water," she's "that moss," and was "green this morning and less green now and that's okay because" she's looking her way, then laughed at nothing missing. They say that how she saw it is to be. How we've got our little thing going on and she is here for it.
They say what moves through her is she's around people and they're okay.
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There was a rumor that when she'd get distracted, she'd work up a scene. She'd catch herself in a lovely conversation, with us over here, in our favorite cafe.
Books and windows and something turning back into steam - the best. She'd look at us, all eyes ("which are just ears that got lost on their way"), and she'd say something that opens portals, nothing ending, "'first-turn advantage'? What's that?"
In the cafe, in the scene, she might have her hands folded, call them "neat" and "in front of" her. She'd have the world's only smile where the horizon completes, she couldn't judge you edgewise, saying she's not about to "take that away from you," to leave that yours to make. She might use peripherial vision to check and see if there might be "anything as need" she might ply and situate: we have water, bracelet, eyebrow piercing and understanding oozing through and through.
The light in our eyes over her invitation seem to sister waves that knock her back and she's small in our attention and fresh as shore. We know her not to move in before we've said our piece and she invests in what of all is that. She'd feel the sentence in us, the patience it took to find first light, her every thought collected so just when you strike its true, each word a piercing let through, made grotto to the cove of her ear.
She wouldn't know so tell us maybe, she hadn't heard of it and we "So," our part of being true on that is here, and we pour into an explantion exactly set for her. Each pause and swallow hers to find how we would always be this moment for all the rest of all time relationship made to see light set to listen. We forget even as we recognition, this mkoment, evaporation's knowing how to live among what's free. She sees our answer, full and bright, each word it's place in her. How every listening come after breaths to feel how we got seen.
Our approach and passion for design trickles in from broken ribs of symmetry in everything that brought her us and how we're just the thing to see she find what lifts the bind is how play comes to be, how player count makes starting out how ending hasn't seen.
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As we finish, she sees the table follow our ask to bring us closer, falling away, or we lean forward, her body in tune with a power and a pulse that brings space to know what's up.
Our explanation invite "her listening in" to "be first turn." How we are made vulnerable, as this leaves her with all the authority to acknowledge this (to step in here, to consent) or no: "Should I accept my surprise your first play?" we leave her to think.
She responds with patterns burning starlight as though to invitr how that's gone. She'd check, to know what's level, what it means to take a part and so acknowledge she's being asked, not so much if she would like to dance, but the dance to her liking - attention to her hand. We've asked her if she feels held enough for agency to exert forth and open up - "consent as menu screen." In a pause be to notice.
She voices a nod, she'd make meaning with us. Ripple outcome out with her.
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It might have been said she danced with her feelings to see. To go where the one dance will once.
Upon her calculating the rate of reality let per day, she deduced our separate dawns, each breath our own life making as many choices as we might like, approximating best she could figure, as her every breath found its name, it's dawn, it's molecular draw let be dew on the back of the tongue of her awareness as it found taste for presence, she a sanctum.
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There was a rumor that she didn't want to put screams of existential dread aside.
Someone swore that where she would sit our bodies fell. Places so low, in any other sense it is "tumbling against the walls," what we call ourselves left to draw as breath. Just to be able to sit with loved ones and they hyperventilate, they and-then-this-happened, and not lend us the words she knows, but to have the sense to scream alongside you, dawn the best she got.
I heard the top of her lungs become the throats mountains swallow storms through, floods her lung capacity. I heard she was once caught asking What kind of chant is this? to a messy, out-there hell. Someone swore that she once was asked to talk about the sportsball on the screen and she presented a powerpoint of the plays, talking about the fluid dynamics of the bodies and translate decaliters of sweat across bodies into names of channels of water derived via hyphenations of the players names as the waters moved from body to body to body.
A child claimed she once heard her ask if all was lost
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It was said that she would slip down onto the edge of page as she read, legs wiggling the way animals feets wiggle when people hold them by the torso just above. She'd lower herself down at the speed of a small wet dog to inspect the bodies of the loved ones dashed against the edge of this passage as she settles on it as bed, and stroll about. They say that she found her way to normalize sensations as pretty as the ones she read, praying punctuation holds her. Praying, where it fails, it does catastrophically, so, as it couldn't get a happy ending, it at least got an unhappy one. They say, to know how to have an ego without dissolving it or transforming it or observing it into radiant entanglement, she would do a bit of bread breading and nomming with people and find where every meal might meet.
A child claimed she was never able to get it perfect - never quite adult-adult, but something curious enough toward them to be an unknown more than loved, an unknown that was liked.
Not quite "the book on the shelf," maybe "leaves in the sack." Not "the special occasion," but at least the mundane mistake. Every "thing you're not to notice" in "the film that someone inevitably does," for high enough volumes of "you're." Maybe her hat doesn't float away, but she finds her feet anyway, sits down, a creek forming with the way she's been - together and found and thought attractive (if who was that).
Someone swore that she was crunched, mulched, picked up and tossed as let-down, nothing keeping. That she became a path if littered bodies, the love that knows the fall is part of the becoming her's is end to. That she called it a thrill
"to go splat."
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