log:aug_NTS-7

My dad filmed our cats for hours when we were growing up 

Gulf of Rayon.  Cloth of Stone.  Folding over the eyes.  Uncoiling before its distant gaze, situated on the opposite Rim.  Boiling depths.  Hissing cauldron, rising with the offspring of countless hosts, all gathering in the bellies of those cut off.

Severing, yet also intrusive.  Coaxing with a vision.  Oceanic memory.  Vistas which fail to compute beyond the moment.  

Instead, following it into a cold, dimensionless riptide.  Drawn down its black, slavering mouth where countless souls have been.  Inky blots where their cerebrums accepted His disease; hemispheres of doubt and longing.  

Plague of Freedom.  His final choice as He continues to digest, order, form, reason; all things that are known for keeping His host comfortable.  Inviting dysolgia on systems of doubt and control …