Rings orbit, tingling the skin with a silent orchestra of sensation. A breath away from salvation. Breathless anticipation for the wishful whereas the wanton whirl with the post packaged detritus – nothing will be salvageable.
They’ve slid great hooks in, cold and metallic, under papery skin. If there was a finger to be lifted it would quaver over a pile of bones, all eager for selection yet smug in some knowing unknown. There’s a bypass to route those out who can’t keep up… the sleepy one can drift away gently without coercion – best not wrest with the restless.
On the top shelf are nine portals. I’m to pin a thread to each and hurl the spools into the black.
Set the lines. Kick back.
My kinda fishin.