To commune sounds handsome, also calm, also bendy. In the same call he reverses prerogatives — that is, his voice does. (I’ll table the difference. Each.)
“Cloven, we are incorporate…”
His message is mixed but never better aligned. Together, all across the call center that serves as the hideout, learning the ropes, perusing scraps and parts of hope.

No fins of infinity. Nope.

Halloween patterns the exponents where detachment is trimmed.

We have no major issues.

No shady aftermath inter-scope.

And to think a way out, we can blur the ground and yield authority to a bowl that’s really a vase. Sit and watch dogs turn smoky brown tracking vans in drizzle, tarnished from sight, playing against a stack of storm windows, within a composure for light a translator can’t reach.