Topographical

Not so specific is the way that it should feel. Like a chronically ill patient who has that stomach twist around that nobody can identify. It’s probably just gas pains, or a thought caught in between sternum and outlet, one or the other seems most likely, but who knows at the end.

Hyperbolic is the chance meadow we sit in, a graduated course outline on desperate measures and abject failures coated in sin. Nothing but molehills as far as the eye can see, though the weather on the far side is anything but sunny, I’ve heard wind and snow.

That’s the kind of character building exercise I’m all down for, you know how they mean. Where it walks up dizzying heights and then crashes into the burrows beneath. Even rodent beasties are terrifying if given the right scale and these ones have eyes the size of saucers, lips peeled back in screamless fright, tongues lashing about with tastebuds signaled that there’s blood in the water for their sharkish moods.

There’s even games that outfit gumballs with the kind of attire to tackle this kind of noise, give ’em gauntlets and the like so as to hack and smite. What about limit broken soldiers with shuddering penflaps and a sackful of ink leaking all over the place. What about the child outside blubbering with an appeal that it can’t sound out between the emotional climaxes stuck to the morass of its shattered soul?

What then are we to do? A minefield abounds and there’s literal fancy footwork needed to parade across the land, I’d hazard event a courtesy or two to be handled as appropriate.

Bloody topographers got it all wrong this time mate, time to ship back the other direction and pray for anything but the doldrums to keep the ship going.

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