The Sheath, Machine and Vessel
The clouds exchange form and become a fixture over the skies.
Deep down I can also perceive seas fluctuating in blood and parts, my very own systems welcoming seismic waves into my thought patterns.
I feel out for my glasses and afterwards, hit my head on rising from my bunk-bed. Brown warm eyes flash out to my faint cognizance and commands an oath for tomorrow.
It is a poster of our Brother-King, Nimrod II. "Tomorrow is a sheath which your hands can only pull", it reads. This is 2022, in which future leaps from our liminal states.
Tyranny in temporality.
Here, hearts and minds find strangulation in timed balances.
My name is 3456. I'm a 'Soul Cleaner', for the 'Progress in Sterility' unit.
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