Yvaine is collapsing beneath the weight of imploding galaxies.
celestial bodies don’t always dance; sometimes they stumble,
& in the space of those faltered steps, there is a kind of painful silence -
the sort that descends when someone voices a question
& no one knows the answer.
the wrench is gone, or at least, she can’t feel its weight in her palms any longer
& the stars have ceased to consult her before moving on or off their orbital patterns.
a layman’s hands are his welfare,
& so, it seems this month she starves.
(& at the word, Enna cracks a smile)
heavenly bodies may well be the answer to one of these ‘unanswerables’,
but system overload is the main malfunction of this engine;
the diagnostic readout has been screaming it in little red digital rat pellets for days now.
sigh, sigh, sigh.
it never rains but it pours.
