An infinite loop of forking roads in which they who
Draw the map trace the roads most travelled
As possibility is not a given in blood
It is bestowed upon or wrenched from grasps
A stylus which punctures the notion of presence
A plain which only captures its perceived distances
Labyrinth, layer, stream
A flow of earth and gold, means and power
We speak their language
We give away victory upon victory
The third, the second, the first face of defeat
Slain
The conjuring of illusory permanence
Represent the world back to itself
A monistic world-entanglement
To judge all of this as given
Is to fall into despair
I have molded this being into my image
This story's frames are the limits I have set
A line which weaves and collapses onto itself
Until the mirror does not reflect but welcomes
An incomplete but not inaccurate representation of being
Hiding worlds, not world
Worlds of such wealth
Such wealth
Unlimited power and unlimited danger
An endless field of caverns
Conjure the irreal
Where are the gaps and the cracks in the sphere?
We wander the spaces between the worlds
Looking back over wreckages, labyrinths, versions