meet my grave companions. none of them is called Thought or Memory and i still have two eyes. all of them seem to descend from Odin's breed, however, and my sight is sharp, yet crooked.
with the crows around i cannot resist the feeling of an ancient bond that presses soil harder to my foot soles until it enters the blood. pupils set, heart beating like one of Lady Nevermore's. she is the mistress of contrast, adept of simplicity. bringing life to very few substantial aspects she makes it bare: the alternatives are only two. no polarity scales. no colour diagrams to confuse senses. no excuses.
she feels the air pending
her chest rises
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