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.
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