The Salt Hills
When continents collide and the abyssal plain reaches for the sky with stone, the ants wiggle their antenna unknowing the tread of eternity all around them. Like the sediments that transformed beneath the ocean’s deep, the dust on shelves hides many memories which can be disturbed by a leaking roof, a child’s eyes, old acquaintances renewed. They can be disturbed by the never-ending struggle between technology and magick. When you rowed out into the lake with those memories long ago, wrapped them in a tarp, and tied the weight with a bowline with best intent to never see them surface again, sometimes the rope rots and they surface again. Or perhaps it is the brain that rots with old age, each synapse fires one last time before it burns out forever.