re·fram·ing, 3
- Ryan Schwaar
- Jan 6, 2022
- 1 min read
It's black, as thick as can be while leaving something to frame. In its bright white center is more of the same. More of the same, like falling through the levels of Soul. Hockey puck, popsicle stick rims, concentric neon subframes spawning like ghosts in the Acheron. It's not pulling me; I'm not even falling. I'm moving. Gliding directly forward, limbs out of sight, out of mind. Curious but motionless, as I'm conveyed inward forever.
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