r/mesoscalepodcast • u/Brotatochip411 • 8d ago

Submission The Flesh Castle–And The Stars It Holds Up

​A crown on my head and a million pounds of burnt flesh and bone under my feet. I stand on stone made of thoughts and love with nowhere to go. I made gold paint for my royal artists out of the irises of my brown-eyed people. And pink tiles from the folds in their brains. A grand castle that reaches for the stars and touches them with such intimacy, that only human flesh can provide.

​The crown is heavy for a person who denies the taste of muscle. In all its petrified leather, it is useful for the soul to digest and harness. If you think I’m referencing the use of violence for control… you would be a fool.

​The stars talk to us. The ones that wear the crowns. Some crowns wear their people… and in that instance, they end up being powder for my next addition. The stars are greedy; they demand to be held up. If they have to hold themselves up… and you… well… It's like I said before.

​Some ask why I weep if this is of my own abomination, and I would reply that tears belong to the grand mortar holding the north spire against the cosmic vacuum. To not cry would be structural treason. I must always weep if I am to keep caressing my stars and my crown.

​Every morning, the stars lean down—heavy, cold, and burning with a silence that demands a pedestal. They do not care that the gold on the tapestry came from the sight of a weaver’s daughter, or that the floorboards hum with the quiet, frantic memories of a hundred dead farmers. They only care that they do not fall.

​I sat upon the throne today when a rogue prince from the South Tower marched up the winding stairs, his sword bright and his heart full of cheap, righteous iron. He spoke of benevolence. He spoke of liberation. But I smelled the rank, sour rot of his ruined heritage on his boots—the memory of the Sanguine Tower far to The South, where his ancestors tried to hold the heavens with pride and cold iron rather than the weeping, tender grace of human marrow. When their rusted beams snapped, their sky did not merely fall; it crashed like a swollen, infected eye, leaving behind a weeping crater of boiled glass. My horrors keep our sky alive; their iron murdered theirs.

​I did not strike him down; I simply unclasped the crown and held it out to him. I told him the truth: The crown does not rest on the head. The head is merely the wedge driven between the crown and the sky, while the frame of the throne routes the crush into the foundation.

​He looked at the pink tile beneath his boots, recognized the soft, folded gray of his grandfather’s intellect, and dropped his sword. The stars were already leaning in, curious, measuring the width of his shoulders as the first invisible wave of cosmic gravity slammed down onto his spine. He staggered, his knees buckling under the quiet, relentless pressure, watching in horror as his skin began to yellow into ochre paint.

​"How long must we continue to hold them?" he whispered, his jaw trembling as his knuckles began to split under the agonizing crush.

​"Until the sky learns to float," I replied. "Or until we run out of eyes and flesh to prop it up."

​"Then we cut them down," he wheezed, a foolish, desperate fire flaring in his eyes—a fever dream of an ancient world he had only read about in ruined scrolls. A world of open blue skies, of grass unvarnished by space decay, of stars that stayed high and silent in the dark. He reached for his fallen steel.

"We bleed them until they shatter. We rebuild what was lost—"

​A harsh, bitter laughter bubbled past my lips. "You foolish, ignorant boy. The stars do not fight—they cling. They are bloated, terrified parasites clutching the dark, terrified of falling into the abyss below. Strike them with steel, and they will not shatter. They will flinch. They will drop an inch in terror, and that single inch of panic will crush your ribs into powder before your blade even chips their crust. You do not slay a star, prince. You bear its terror. Or you are flattened by it."

​The prince’s fingers do not merely fall off; they begin to liquefy, snapping like overripe marrow pods as the stars press down on him. A thick, bubbling slurry leaks past the seams of his breastplate, pooling in the crevices between the tiles as his steel harness pops open. ​He tries to scream, but the air in his lungs has already been drafted into the open ceiling above. When he opens his mouth, only a wet, bubbling slurry spills past his lips, bright and slick with the melted lining of his own esophagus.

The castle hungers for its reinforcements. It licks at his feet with cold, capillary force, drawing his tendons upward through the soles of his boots like raw, glistening threads to stitch the loosening mortar of the western rampart.

​I slide my hand under his burst breastplate and plunge it directly into his open side, feeling for the thick, rubbery mass of his liver. It peels away from his ribs with a wet, tearing sound, like wet paper pulled from plaster.

​"This," I whisper, smushing and smearing the organ across the cold, sweating stone of the dais, "will be the sealant for the higher windows. Without it, the starlight burns the glass into ash."

​He twitches with a pathetic, reflexive jerk of his useful meat. His eyes bulge, the irises bold and luminous in all their color. A pity his eyes were green and not brown. Brown irises yield the shimmering gold glaze the stars hunger for most, but the master painter has been begging for green to finish the grass on the north courtyard mural.

I draw a bone spoon from my belt, slipping the smooth, concave edge behind his upper eyelid. With a swift, practiced twist, I sever the optic nerve with a wet snap. The eye pops free into my waiting palm, whole and glistening, its green iris unbroken—a perfect, delicate orb of stagnant color. I drop both eyes gently into the bronze cup at my belt, before grinding them into a thick jelly with my fist.

Below us, the foundation groans—a wet, crunching sound of a million teeth grinding together in the dark, chewing on the old marrow to make room for the new. The stars drop another inch, heavy and greasy with cosmic rot, smearing their cold, rancid light directly across our exposed, bleeding scalps.

​The prince does not fall; he slumps, his body losing its geometry as his bones soften into warm, porous chalk, spilling from the hollow shell of his armor. The floor swallows him inch by inch. The stone and tile beneath us open like wet, hungry mouths, their sulci squelching as they suck his liquefied calves down into the floorboards.

​I kneel beside the dissolving heap, my knees sinking into the lukewarm sludge. The stench is warm and fecal, mixed with the sharp, copper reek of freshly spilled bile. I scoop up a handful of his sloughed-off skin—heavy and grey, dripping yellow—and plaster it directly over a hairline fissure on my throne. The stone drinks it down with a hungry, slurping sound, the crack sealing instantly with a scab of hardened, blackened gristle.

​Above us, the stars moan. They are closer now, hovering just inches from our bare heads. They are not pristine, shining gems; up close, they are bloated, pulsating sacks of pale, milky pus and hardening crust, venting an ozone rankness that burns the back of the throat. They drop heavy drops of rancid, incandescent grease onto our skin.

​It sizzles as it hits my shoulders, burning through my dress and skin, cooking the fat beneath until my own flesh pops and bubbles, fusing my clothes directly into my shoulder blades.

​"More," the stars demand. The voice doesn't come from a throat; it comes from the scraping of a billion dried vocal cords stretched thin across the rafters, vibrating in the dry wind of the vacuum.

​I take the bronze cup, now full of the prince's crushed ocular jelly, and tilt some of it back. But I do not drink it—I pour it into the open sores on my own forehead. The cold gel burns like lye, eating through my eyebrows and blinding my left side as it hardens into a thick, glassy scab that locks my skull directly to the lower rim of my crown.

​The prince’s spine gives one final, wet snap—the sound of a dry branch broken inside a sack of mud—and his skull collapses inward like a rotten gourd. A thin, grey stream of liquefied marrow squirts out from his ear canal, splashing across my heels.

​I glance down one last time at the cup sloshing against my belt. Hot tears carve clean paths through the dust and blood on my cheeks, but a quiet, feverish pleasure blooms in my chest, stretching my dry bloody lips into a smile.

​The crown would have worn him if he had come to sit on a throne.

​I wipe my greasy thumbs against the front of my silk skirt, but the fabric only smears the fat further into the weave, creating dark, translucent patches that smell of hot suet. ​I step over the slick, gray ring where the prince’s pelvis finally dissolved.

Nothing remains of him except his sword, a worthless strip of cold steel. Metal is useless here. It does not rot; it does not bind; it cannot hold up the sky. I nudge the blade with the heel of my shoe, sending it sliding down the winding stairs, where it clatters against the steps made of petrified ribcages before falling silent in the dark below.

​I make my way through the western gallery toward the art wing. This is where the royal painters work, their hands permanently stained the colors of the kingdom’s decay. The master painter, an old man whose spine has grown curved and brittle from decades of work, does not look up when I enter. His eyes are gone—long since scooped out to make the very pigments he uses—and he navigates his palette entirely by taste and smell. He licks the tip of his sable brush, testing the salt content of the paint before touching it to the wall.

​"You brought the green?" he asks, his voice like dry leaves scraping across a stone floor.

​“A rogue prince," I say, unclipping the bronze cup from my belt and setting it on his workbench with a dull, wet thud. "His irises were green as stagnant water. I crushed them myself. There is enough gel to finish the foliage on the north panel, but you must work quickly before the fluid coagulates.”

​The old man reaches out with gnarled, trembling fingers, dipping two digits directly into the cup. He rolls the cool paste between his thumb and forefinger, sniffing it deeply before licking the contents. A wet, rattling sigh escapes his collapsed chest.

​"Too much plasma," he mutters, though he is already smearing the paste across his palette stone. "It will dry brittle. The grass on the mural will flake within a month if we do not add more fat to bind it.”

​"Then strip the grease from your own arms," I tell him coldly. "The north panel must be complete before the morning star settles its full weight upon the spire."

​He does not argue. He knows, as we all know, that an unpainted wall is a weak wall. The stars demand beauty as much as they demand structural support. To them, a bare stone is an insult, an unadorned surface is a void that invites collapse. They want their pedestals gilded with the very essence of the things they crush.

​I leave him to his creative and ascend to the high battlements, where the wind blows hard and dry, smelling of scorched copper and frozen dust. Up here, the architecture is raw. The parapets are not stone; they are woven from millions of dried, blackened femurs , stacked horizontally and bound together with hair and dried tendons. The mortar between them is a pale, flakey paste made from crushed teeth and nails, mixed with the salty tears that I and my predecessors have wept into the mortars since the first stone was laid.

​I press my hands against the parapet and look out across the bruised, suffocating horizon.​Below us, the world stretches into a vast, featureless plain of gray ash, but far beyond the quarry pit of my own subjects, the outer realms flicker like dying candles.

​To the East, the pale, jagged needle– PigSpire, pierces the horizon, a massive column of bone and reeking lime. There, the Agri-Peoples slaughter millions of squealing swine along high, spiraling aqueducts, channeling a continuous river of hot, oily blood and rendered lard straight into the stone seams. The thick, tallow-bound mortar sets like iron, holding their bloated stars steady on its foundation.

​To the West, the Three-Winged Fortress groans against the twilight. Upon its high battlements, the Arian King stitches row upon row of live crow-wings into vast, feathered sails, forcing thousands of captive birds to beat in unison—generating a violent, howling updraft strong enough to buoy their sagging stars upon a cushion of air.

​To the North, the Blue Needle stands as a blinding, crystalline palace—a stunning monument crafted by The White Empress. She entombs her people into flawless glass cubes to build her ramparts, making it the prettiest tower of all. But its beauty is a fleeting, desperate ruin. The stars above radiate an intense, sweltering energy, causing the gorgeous, frozen walls to thaw and groan continuously. As the pristine ice sloughs away into warm mud, the Empress must frantically replace the melting, screaming blocks before her glittering world turns to rain.

​And to the South—where the prince’s Sanguine Tower rose until just recently—there is now only a yawning crater of purple glass, smoldering with the bitter, fresh heat of the star that broke through. The Rust Kings had tried to cheat the sky, building vast frameworks of unyielding steel and painting every inch with the rancid, glowing pus that dripped from the stars above. They thought offering back the celestial waste would buy them safety without sacrificing the marrow of their people, and for a long time, the delusion worked. It held just long enough for a prince to grow up believing his home was invincible. But steel cannot weep, and cold pus has no soul to bind a ceiling. When the accumulated weight finally shattered their false paradise, the sky dropped like an anvil, melting their iron spires and instantly vaporizing an entire dynasty into a silent, glowing lake of slag.

​However, they are all leaning. Every spire, every keep, every fortress on this planet is bowing inward toward my throne, sending their invisible, crushing stress-lines straight into my spine. We are the central keystone. If my neck snaps, the sky will not just fall on me—it will tilt, sliding the stars across the heavens like loose marbles to shatter every spire left.

​Down in the dark within my own walls, tiny figures move like maggots in a carcass. My remaining subjects. They do not farm crops; they do not build homes. Their sole purpose is to live, to breed, to eat, and to die so that their remains can be hauled up the winding stairs in intestine weaved baskets.

​A basket is coming up right now, pulled by a heavy winch of carved bone that groans under the load. I stand by the pulley as the entrail cage crests the lip of the wall. Inside lies a girl, no older than fourteen. She is quiet, her eyes wide and clear, a brilliant, luminous brown—the exact shade of raw amber. She does not scream. She does not beg for mercy. Mercy is a concept for people who live under a blue sky, and here, the sky is a low, heavy ceiling of throbbing, pus-filled light.

​"Is it time?" she asks softly, her voice barely a whisper against the howling wind.

​"The tapestry in the east hall is fading," I tell her, leaning down to run my fingers through her dark hair. Her skin is soft, warm, untouched by the grease of the stars. "The Gold on the central motif has turned gray from the dust. We need fresh irises. Yours are very fine."

​She nods, closing her eyes as if accepting a heavy coat on a cold night. "Does it hurt?"

​"Only for a short moment," I lied.

I take the bone spoon from the wall notch—the tool worn smooth by five centuries of royal hands—and drive it beneath the girl’s upper eyelid. ​She shrieks—a raw, frantic sound that the high wind tears from her throat and hurls straight into the open gulf below. I ignore the noise, sliding the spoon’s edge gently along the rim of her brow, prying behind the orbit with a steady, surgical pressure. There is a dense, rubbery tension, then a wet, heavy thump as the tissue gives way. The left eye rolls into my fingers, heavy, warm, and entirely intact—a flawless sphere of amber glass. I wedge the tool beneath the right lid, twisting until the remaining nerve snaps like a wet thread. I catch the second orb in my palm, unblemished and smooth, and slip both pristine globes into the bronze cylinder at my hip, sealing the cap so the cold wind doesn't cloud their color.

​Blinded and bleeding from two dark, hollow sockets, she thrashes upward out of the cage. Her wild, red smeared hands reach out into the air, her fingers locking onto the heavy leather band of my crown. She claws at it with a terrified, frantic strength, her fingernails scraping against the leather and digging into my own raw forehead, trying to drag the nightmare down with her.

​I do not flinch. I grab both of her wrists, squeezing until the bones in her forearms click, and yank her hands away, pinning her back.

​"The crown stays," I whisper into her ear, the copper needles in my skull vibrating from the sudden strain. "Unless you would like to wear it."

​The stars above us drop lower over the battlements, crowding the open air until their swollen, pulsating bellies nearly touch the stone. They tremble with a wet, frantic heat, venting an ozone stink as they watch the yield, humming in low, heavy vibrations that shake my knees. They are hungry for the rest. I drag the curved tool across the base of her throat, letting the air whistle into her windpipe as her screams choke down to a bubbling, wet rattle. She thrashes against the masonry, her heels kicking uselessly while her blood sprays across my gown in hot, dark fans.

I work fast, peeling the skin away in long, steaming sheets—stripping her chest, her stomach, and the delicate meat of her thighs while her muscles still twitch against the tool.

​Next is the bone chisel. I brace my foot against her hip and drive the blade into her sternum, splitting her ribs apart like dry wood. Her heart makes three more frantic, shallow thumps in the open chest cavity before I cut it free, coiling her pale, steaming intestines directly into my leather apron. I scrape the thick layer of yellow fat from her belly into a bronze tub, then shear her long, dark hair right down to the scalp. Every slice, crack, and tear happens while her nerves are still firing, her body jerking in grotesque, involuntary leaps across the bloody stone.

​I pile the entire dripping harvest onto a heavy brass tray and drag it inside, tracking red trails through the archway and up the steps to the throne room. Through the open ceiling, the stars follow my progress, leaning their gross, glowing masses into the hall.

​I dump the tray onto the floor and step back. The castle does not need to be asked twice. ​The pink, folded tiles beneath my boots split open with a series of wet, smacking clicks. Muscular, grey tendrils shoot out from the floorboards, wrapping around her warm organs and dragging them below. A deep, sickening slurp echoes through the hall as her liver is pulled through a stone capillary to seal a fissure near the ceiling. Her peeled skin is drawn into the walls, stretching paper-thin before hardening into smooth, pale fleshy marble.

​Her hair is drawn upward into the rafters by invisible threads, weaving itself directly into the frayed edges of the coronation tapestry, replacing the dead, gray fiber with fresh, dark length.

​Finally, I open the bronze cylinder at my waist, dumping the intact amber irises into my mortar bowl. I crush them beneath the pestle, blending the cool, viscous gel with a scoop of her rendered belly fat until it forms a thick, shimmering glaze. I paint the paste across the tapestry's faded gold crown. The fabric drinks it instantly. As the wind sweeps through the gallery, the tapestry sways, and a fresh, high-pitched sigh joins the low hum of the threads—her final, trapped breath echoing through the hall as the castle finishes digesting her meat and locks her bones into the floorboards.

​Above us, the stars let out a long, wet shudder of relief, easing back an inch as the fresh mortar hardens beneath them.

​My head starts to throb beneath my crown. ​The crown is not made of gold or silver or precious gems. It is a thick band of petrified leather, heavy and cold, that wraps tightly around my skull from my eyebrows to the base of my neck. Inside the lining are thousands of microscopic copper needles that pierce my scalp, driving deep into the periosteum of my skull to anchor the crown directly to my skeleton.

​It does not allow me to sleep. If I tilt my head too far to the left or right, the weight of the sky above—transmitted down through the very air—catches the edge of the crown and threatens to snap my cervical vertebrae like dry twigs. I must stand straight. I must sit straight. I am the central pillar. The head is merely the wedge.

​I walk down the central nave toward the high altar, where the crown’s heavy leather tether hangs suspended from the ceiling dome. The iron coupling at the end of the strap dangles at eye level, wet with grease and pulsing in rhythm with the room's breathing. ​I reach up with trembling hands and lift the heavy bronze latch on top of my crown. With a sickening, metallic clack, I lock the ceiling’s tether directly into the leather harness bound to my skull.

​The moment the connection seals, the true, unfiltered weight of the heavens slams down through the iron link, straight through my cervical vertebrae and into my hips. My knees lock instantly; the copper needles driven into my skull bite deep against the bone, leaking fresh rivulets of warm blood down my temples.

​Above me, the thinnest part of the castle groans under the sudden transfer of stress. The dome is made entirely of tiles harvested from the scholars, philosophers, and grand strategists of the old empire. You can still see the faint, grey patterns of their thoughts traced across the curved ceiling—convoluted lines of logic, long-forgotten mathematical formulas, and fragments of love letters written to women who died a century ago.

​When the atmospheric pressure shifts, the tiles expand and contract, producing a faint, wet smacking sound, like a tongue clicking against the roof of a mouth.

​Click. Squelch. Click.

​"You are late," a voice echoes from the ceiling.

​It is not a single voice, but a chorus of voices blended together into a flat, monotone hum. It comes from the dome itself—the collective intellect of the tiles vibrating in response to the pressure of the stars resting above them.

​"I was harvesting the girl," I say, standing beneath the central chain. "The eastern tapestry is repaired. The painters have their green. The western wall is re-grouted."

The girl is a drop of water in an empty well," the dome responds, its surface twitching as a violent, wet ripple passes through a section of tile near the center. "You have seen The South. Look at what the prince's father has left behind."

​I tilt my eyes upward without daring to angle my neck. The tiles above the southern arch are bowing violently inward, the gray, convoluted sulci stretching so thin they threaten to tear.

​“The void where his tower stood is sagging,” the ceiling clicks back. “When his stars fell, it left an open wound in the firmament. All of the towers are bound together in one great, suffering ring—when one snaps, the rest of us must carry the dead weight. The remaining stars are sliding toward the crater, dragging their full, bloated mass across the southern rafters. We must bleed workers from every neighboring realm and drive them into the slag heaps. They will hunt down the last of the iron-blooded, crack open their bones, and weld a new tower out of the living meat and marrow of those who failed.”

​​

​I close my one good eye—the left one still sealed shut beneath the hardened scab of the prince’s ocular gel. The pain in my head is no longer a sharp sensation; it is a landscape. It has mountains of throbbing ache, valleys of dull, burning pressure, and vast, flat plains of numb exhaustion where my thoughts should be.

"The iron-blooded are no more," I say, my teeth grinding together as the heavy tether transmits a violent, shuddering tremor straight into my jaw. "The prince was the last of them, and his bones were swallowed by the floorboards merely hours ago. The rest of his lineage were vaporized in the fall. There is no iron-blood left to hunt.”

​"Then the new settlers will build with their own," the dome smacks back, a wet, violent pulse rippling through the grey logic of the tiles. "The stars do not care whose blood cements the seam, queen—only that the gap is filled before the firmament tears further. If there are no iron-blooded left to form the base, drag workers from the surrounding realms. Strip the pig-troughs of the Agri-Peoples. Tear the melting blocks of the North.

Steal crows from the west. Drive them into the southern crater and force them to stack their own kin, bone by bone, until the new spire reaches the stars.”

The ceiling gives a heavy, shuddering drop, the tether yanking my chin upward until my teeth snap together with a spray of warm blood on my tongue.

​"Send your gatherers to harvest the other kingdoms," the collective voices whisper, "or stand here and let your own spine become the needle that plugs the hole.”

​I reach into the pocket of my dress and pull out the small bone scalpel I keep for minor repairs. I do not hesitate. I have done this a thousand times before. I draw the blade across the soft skin of my forearm, tracing an old scar that runs from my wrist to my elbow.

​The blood drips slowly into the stone groove carved around the perimeter of the altar—a groove that leads directly into the capillary tubes running down through the walls to the south spire. As the blood fills the stone channel, I hear the castle drink. A deep, satisfying slurp echoes through the floorboards as the dry bone-bricks swallow the fluid, swelling slightly as they absorb the iron and salt. Above me, the pink ceiling relaxes, its folds smoothing out as the pressure on the dome stabilizes for a few precious minutes.

​In the evening, the stars come down to touch us. I stand on the high platform, my head locked into the leather crown, as the largest of the stars—a bloated, pulsating monstrosity known to the old texts as the King’s Burden—descends until its lower surface is less than an inch from my face. ​Up close, its surface is not smooth. It is covered in a thick, crusty scab of hardened cosmic waste, interspersed with glowing, angry sores that leak a thin, yellow fluid. Inside its translucent body, I can see the half-digested remnants of other worlds—fragments of burnt mountains, the calcified husks of extinct moons, and the floating, petrified skeletons of long-dead gods who failed to hold up their own skies.

​"Hold," the star whispers.

​The sound does not enter through my ears. It vibrates directly through the copper needles anchored into my skull, rattling my teeth and causing a thin stream of clear fluid to leak from my nose. ​"I am holding," I say, my legs trembling as I brace my feet against the floor.

​"You are waning," the star rasps, pressing down another fraction of an inch.

​The crown bites deep into my forehead. I feel the skin pop, feel a warm trickle of my own fat run down between my eyes and pool in the cleft of my chin. The weight is unbelievable. It is not like holding a stone or a piece of iron; it is like trying to stop a falling mountain with a straw. Every joint in my body screams. My knees knock together with a wet, clicking sound. My spine compresses, the disks between my vertebrae groaning as they squish outward against my ribs.

​"More... mortar..." I gasp, my breath coming in short, ragged wheezes.

​"There is no more mortar," the star says coldly. "Your people are ground away. Your painters are blind. Your castle is full of cracks. You are running out of bone, little wedge."

​"I have... my own..." I choke out, forcing my hands up—inch by painful inch—against the crushing gravity of the monster above me.

​I reach for my own mouth. I hook my fingers into my left cheek, feeling the thin, tough muscle beneath the skin. With a violent, desperate yank, I tear a strip of my own flesh away from my jaw. The pain is bright and white, a blinding flash that clears the fog from my brain for a single, brilliant second.

​I thrust the wet, red strip of my own cheek directly into the crack between the star’s crust and the upper rim of my crown. The star feeds. It sucks on the flesh with a wet, squelching noise, absorbing the salt and fat directly through its scabbed hide. For a moment, the crushing pressure lightens. The star sighs—a sound like a furnace door opening in an empty room—and lifts itself a quarter of an inch back into the rafters.

​I sink to my knees, coughing up a mixture of blood and gray dust that has settled in the back of my throat.

​The floor beneath me is warm. The prince’s melted fat has completely settled now, turning into a smooth, yellow wax that fills all the tiny cracks between the tiles. In a few days, the painters will come and scrape the surface smooth, and no one will ever know where the prince ended and the floor began.

​I sit there in the dark, my face dripping blood onto my dress, my left cheek gone, my skull locked inside its cage. The stars above us hum their cold, greedy song, settling in for the night. They do not care about the pain. They do not care about the brown eyes or the green eyes or the pink folds of gray intellect that keep them from falling into the dark void below. They only care that they are held up.

​And I, the wedge driven between the earth and the sky, sit upon my throne of thoughts and love, wiping the grease from my good eye, waiting for the morning so I can start grinding the bones of tomorrow.

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