#* &. echo.

ꕀ     𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐚 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞.       a  dark   figure   makes   no   effort   to   hide   or   dither,   watching   the   godlet-thing   approach ,  bristling   at   the   edges   like   an   animal   with   forsaken   territory.  as if it matters.   ishaq's   hair   drips   wet,   salt   running   into   his   eyes,  sight   clear   no   matter   the   night.      SOMETHING OF AN ANIMAL CURIOSITY TO HIM, TOO.       when   did   he   get   here ?   did he wash ashore,   just   now ?    he's been standing here forever.         he   saw   the   saint   in   the   reflection   of   a   spilled   glass  that  morning.  a   glimpse,  and   states   and   borders   and   distance   meant   nothing.  he   belongs   to   the   DEEP.   old   gods   pick   him   up   and   toss   him   around,   and   he   is   passive,   mild,   with   no   want   to   argue   against   it.        wants exist not  for his kind.   " it'll be may soon,"   his mouth   runs,  filled  with  salt,  nose  simmering.   enough  seawater  burning  in  his  lungs  to  allow   it   a  conversation.   discomfort   edges   in   the   rivulets   down   his   fingertips :   ISHAQ   BELONGS   TO   THE   OCEAN,   but   this   SEA    is   CLAIMED .  "  who are you giving up this time, boy ?   "