Threaded Fiction
I am rooted in the age of Morpheus. Sewed to the tapestry of the adversary. The chambers of the heart cry out the will to live. Eyes flutter open like butterfly wings from a dreamless cocoon. For I am awake. Threaded to fiction I pull at the seems, clutched to a false fantasy. With the roar of all the beasts under the heavens I rise. Oh deserter of the “World’s Womb”, flung violently into the…