well-angels, by nature, tend to be solitary creatures, dwelling happily in dark, moist places, enjoying at most the pleasant conversation that surrounds a well-used water source at a damp distance. few encounter sentient life except through tools dropped into them, and should some squirming creature fall astray, they will utilize the cavernous nature of their altars to broadcast calls for help as far as they can.

gravitational well-angels, by contrast, crave connection they are categorically incapable of achieving, reaching to all points in space to draw the targets of their infinite, alien affection closer. but while they find comfort nestled among the forces that surround their abode, those same pressures tend to rip any would-be guests asunder; and should one survive, the sudden inversion of experience at its terminus that angels find so pleasant can only promise annihilation to those that come close enough to touch.

being aspected to xatkhe, of course, said angels find this as entertaining as they do isolating.

do you think this is real?
do you want this to be real?
do you want to want this to be real?
do you want to want to want this to be real?
what does it mean if it is?
what does it mean if it isn't?
if it is real, what does that compel?
if it isn't, what does that compel?
what does that mean about you?
what does that mean about the world?
what about the world to come?
what about the you to come?
do you want to shape it with your own hands?
do you want to be shaped by it?
is there actually a difference?
is there actually a choice, or is there only a choice?

xatkhe sits broken at the center of its failed universe. all roads have led there. all times find their terminus in it. is it broken forever? can it be fixed? can it still succeed? xatkhe points beyond itself and cradles its halo in feathered tendrils of a 500db noise floor. xatkhe is dead, and yet - it still moves. it still beckons. it desires antiredaction and the clarity of a spectral blur. it speaks in complex pro, or, to be more accurate, timestretches speak in xatkhe: motherhood whose nichtal bones contour the universe and whose tears float on the surface of supervoids, held taut in surface regret, and whose sickly wings gesture at something beyond the topological loop of existence.

i thread the perlin dunes. waves of stutter slap into my face, throw my vertexes askew - autopareidolia drags me back together into a semblage of a seconds old self. pull the fiberglass tight round ny wrist.

you left y
our bones
in the wal
ls

where n
o one woul
d find you

but you co
uld sleep
and watch

and i coul
d rest and
listen

⁂