⠀玭

｛ whoosh ｝

sometimes, the world lifted itself in wingbeats from pin’s shadow: a dream within a dream. their effects ranged. one time, the matter of penjing’s residents all combusted into dragonflies. another time, an unseen palm, very heavy, seemed to suddenly press itself against pin’s forehead. she could not move until it dissipated. there were ones also like this. the air cool and quiet. she looked up.

 ～

the sanctum beach lies ahead. it is a most delicate place, well guarded to strangers. perhaps  another way in . . .

pin made greta with the words, go home. she gave this world roundness, so all treading its path would naturally return. along time, pin walked the dream in circles, ever closer inland whence she once began. her arms were a question, reaching until greta tumbled from her palms, laughing, oh. oh, I’m here. I’m here. I’m here.

｛ the foyer, now ｝

the dining simulation. wires splice the floor, plants burst from light outputs, some seemingly real, others whirring in their automaton parts. a candlelit butterfly lands on you, disintegrates from the salt of your skin, tiny screaming. your eyes adjust to clay pots of liquor, holograms of insects and beasts spilling through the walls and then away. there sits one empty chair and a grand table of food, but no aroma.

｛ I stopped for a time because my energies were needed elsewhere, but am growing penjing when I can. bit by bit. will try to share something soon ｝

pin made pekoe with the word, love. a wound, without sound she breathed it from air to grave. & in its wake pin wrapped pekoe with a cloud fresh from the horizon, waited as she slept among flora & fecundity, patiently, until pekoe’s eyes bloomed open.

｛ ⠀⠀the play ⠀⠀ the eye ⠀⠀ ｝

in penjing, there is a special cricket. memory bugs. they live among white flowers, and only before dawn, in the rain, do they awaken. their chirps sound of tiny bells and a faint—almost inaudible—crying —

the foyer. a sniff brings fragrance of sandalwood and mycelium, curled parchment, and the reminder of dust, though there is none. things not alive, but not un-alive, click and croon within their bearings. pin has dozed away. the plants die when she exhales, then flourish upon inhale. she is unsurprised when her pupils open and you are in them. where does your dream end, and mine begin? she asks, but her mouth never moves.

｛ thank you so much ; a site with some pieces and my ig ;  ｝

｛ I appreciate this, though it’s important I share at a rate that’s meaningful and helpful to me - wish I was a speedier maker ｝

pin made phoebe with the words, bring warmth. she beheld it on the stem of a match, infinitesimal, struck it off her fingernail's crescent — in an instant phoebe plumed up and took all the blue along, purpled the sky, reddened the light, and with the breeze, descended singing to the ground, to land by pin.

pin made genji with the word, diligence. folded by the temperate shadow of a cliff she peeled his silhouette from lightlessness, into time. to finish, pin gave genji a core and for dimension, hid a koi and a small bell inside. he awoke slowly but well, sustained the way a seed negotiates earth.