Hatched; two halves of the shell that it emerged from, two halves of a fallen tear... already rotting. Against this (but identical in meaning), mind-borne by something fatal; its ancient surface freshly-moulded, moulding the silver half-shell floating beneath. And the pin-pricks, misleading, causing a yearning outward; paths across the seas made straight - the paths of lives confused, though, following false patterns which are intertwined, lead always to decay. With the passing of the horse with seven reins, and the presages of loss, the sense are remote, are less than sure. Small and near? huge and far? Holes or interruptions? And always the reminder in their constant circlings - that `always' isn't.
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