The obsolete. At the end of the stillest pond, rotting at the end of the pond, the motionless pond, we’re there floating in this mossy green space. No air can reach us here. Our skins have peeled, our faces have gone. Above, on the shore, the deeply rooted trees have flinched away from their petal leaves, leaving them to lose their fibres in the depths of the earth.
G.G. Melmoth
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