Allt kött är hö.
All flesh is hay. Unfixed, fugitive.
It always feels wrong to write about these things. You can’t give them form, even after they happen to you. There’s an insurmountable gap between making sense and making sense of.
A small wooden box is filled to its brim with wax, the wax pierced with cloves. The box — the corpse — is draped with elusion and armor. Smoke marbles its edges and buries itself in the wood’s grain. Silver chains fend off evil.
These things. Nebulous, or impossible. These things happen and you’ll know them when they do. It’s hard any other way.
Three wheels caught out of time. Soft and fluid, no longer turning, still in perpetual motion. They are all skin. Their thin veil now holds weight — a cloudy resinous mass wedged between this world and the next. Forms repeat and stretch themselves, resting but not at rest.
Things only become real right before they are known.
Four knives are sealed with black wax, prepared ceremoniously. Plant fibers belt a small notebook, the contents of which have been studied since before they were conceived. Objects preserved for another life.
These things are hay. Absolute, immutable.
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