The ever-present door announces itself in heavy traffic, a portal thrumming its private gravity. Brake lights bloom a red procession, hearts drum another time, to feel what stirs beneath these sheets of asphalt riverbed, muscling out of hibernation.
Some say a black star can drink whole worlds from miles away— a terror, until the thought turns inside-out and the void becomes a turning point, its axis hidden between one state and the next. Old icons taught endurance, bright wounds, the lift of leaving.
Danger is expected here. A greater peril looms, by devotion to denial of an elsewhere, in those who swear allegiance to a knotted net, its stinking mesh, even as something ancient and unseen exhales a boggy breath to press against these seams.
