Walk amongst the green, the heavy banks of green, beneath the canopy of the beechwoods. Through the filtered sunlight, shifting shadows and comforting, organic growth, through the blackcurrent, redcurrent, the tangles of roots, to where the trees open up to the sky. And spy what lies beyond.
In the fields, in the fields, stand the pylons. An endless matrix of the things, lined up widdershins, pulsing, veined metal and creamy gold-flecked bone, in concentric circles, into the far distance.
Descend to the city, the city below ground. Follow the rails, to the vaults and weird streets of gleaming, pyramidal, semi-sentient machinery. Even here the pylons penetrate, burrowing their roots down to the deep.
Down here there is a wellspring, a cold light. Breathe, feel the trill of vibration, for a heartbeat. Sullen pits and spitting cables, shorn hair strewn across the ground. Coiled shapes embedded in the surfaces, stagnant heat.
Even here, in this place, I can see the attraction. To be submerged, immersed. Taken in, remade and nurtured, to be better than before. I could be better than before. To dwell down here in this corrosion, in this labyrinth, shaped, fine-tuned, to be where you are.
I touch the nearest pylon and caress it, grip and hold. There’s nothing that I owe you. No assurance of being with you, not anymore. I feel the webwork of capillaries and knotted cartilage. My chest it opens like a flower, as I lose myself, to you.