Post by account_disabled on Dec 13, 2023 0:49:36 GMT -5
As far as the eye extends, beyond the roofs of houses perched on rocky hills and piles of consolidated stones, I cannot glimpse the borders of Stratus, the new world reborn from the destruction of centuries ago. There is no longer the society of the past, with its structures and laws and votes and assemblies. The Fathers say that not even the memory of those forms of government has survived to this day and that the writings, imprinted on weak materials, were reduced to ashes by the flames, disintegrated by the water, crumbled by the collapses. Now, as a Master Engraver, I have learned to write History on stone tablets that no fire, no water, no landslides can destroy.
I teach my art to the latest arrivals, the Distinguished, who travel the streets of Stratus with us, no longer prisoners in his bowels, from which I myself escaped some time ago. There is no rest Phone Number Data down there. But now everything belongs to the past, a life that no longer concerns me, even if it comes back in my dreams and thoughts: the landslides, the deafening noises, the heralding whistles, the assiduous wind, the climbing, the sleepless nights. All this was my life before. Over there. In the Levels. The devastating noise caught him unprepared. Hundreds of rocks and dirt fell from above, almost burying him alive. He coughed, he spat out dust and lumps. He flailed his hands for purchase, kicking to dislodge the debris.
He pulled himself out of that grave, breathed deeply, the blind darkness hanging over him heavy and dense. He called the others. No one answered. There were four of them in that fracture, but he didn't even know the names of the others. She wiped her eyes and called again. Silence. Then a hiss. And the wind came. Gusts of cold air and lumps of dust and debris knocked him to the ground. He held on to a boulder, resisting the force of the air that blew from who knows where in that world that was imploding day after day, regurgitating itself and reconstituting itself in a continuous, infinite metamorphosis. When calm returned, he sat up. He called again.
I teach my art to the latest arrivals, the Distinguished, who travel the streets of Stratus with us, no longer prisoners in his bowels, from which I myself escaped some time ago. There is no rest Phone Number Data down there. But now everything belongs to the past, a life that no longer concerns me, even if it comes back in my dreams and thoughts: the landslides, the deafening noises, the heralding whistles, the assiduous wind, the climbing, the sleepless nights. All this was my life before. Over there. In the Levels. The devastating noise caught him unprepared. Hundreds of rocks and dirt fell from above, almost burying him alive. He coughed, he spat out dust and lumps. He flailed his hands for purchase, kicking to dislodge the debris.
He pulled himself out of that grave, breathed deeply, the blind darkness hanging over him heavy and dense. He called the others. No one answered. There were four of them in that fracture, but he didn't even know the names of the others. She wiped her eyes and called again. Silence. Then a hiss. And the wind came. Gusts of cold air and lumps of dust and debris knocked him to the ground. He held on to a boulder, resisting the force of the air that blew from who knows where in that world that was imploding day after day, regurgitating itself and reconstituting itself in a continuous, infinite metamorphosis. When calm returned, he sat up. He called again.