He rests among a Savannah of ash that has become our memory to the open wilderness. The dust of ourselves, like bloods rust- forgotten on him in the wind that no longer sings, but creaks distant, through the vacuum of the lost skull, I now eternally wake in.
Through hollow sockets, cycling shadows- so deeply engraved…I look out. The wandering mosaic of the savannah unfurls delicately before me; to defy the artistry of this civilization, grown in our minds silence. And though this silence is but a mirror of the air, it shimmers like a mirage in the desert of my gaze. Above this mirage, the air lays placid as a film pulled off a lake in the breathing sun… but the sun here does not end with the day. It takes film after film off the lake until the lake is one barren negative. A desert, wherein the journeys of lost valleys are shaded by the contours of ourselves; within which we pick up our ash, to try and plot an unfinished constellation in the map of our undoing. That unfolds in this speechless desert.
A desert on which descends the rich musth of the rain, speaking to me in hopes I am too old to contain. They fall like torture, born in the moment before they dissolve into another memory, coveting itself amidst a tear that collects my brittle remnants, to satin my shadow. Even as it remains there, capturing me as I slide off myself…I still hope, I still imagine that my white shadow will somehow ossify and form the whole again.
If I didn’t …well, this would just be a savannah of ash…A desert of white shadows, and I, a wayward traveler, found inside the skull of the elephant that remained.

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