What can be done – maybe shouldn’t be. But alas, it is too late now. All that is read has been read and all that paper has been digested by time. What can come of it now besides the dreary white scraps decaying and providing subliminal nutrition to the waste that once was; Hubris in the idea that words are immortal.
Here, in these miles deep, sounds are what our mouths, lips, and tongues are for. Not words – just sounds. Sounds that don’t take up too much air as it is thin down here. Even writing these now is prohibited, punishable, and palatial. We oversleep, forgetting the feel of words on our bodies or books in our hands as there is scarce light and even less passion.
Some were speakers, rhetorical bile spilling out at every stage; they were the first to die. The pang is how it begins; the somnolence is how it ends. Watch your step, there is no telling where blackness isn’t solid anymore. As they fall, the only sound heard is the deep sigh of the stone, claiming another of a stagnant infestation.