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by Sparky
Rated: E · Prose · History · #2143908
What I saw with my pen you can hear with your eyes. RIP
Eugene's Observatory

You know who you are, and you know what buttons to press - locating, measuring, recording, capturing, visiting and envisioning.
She stands in the forest of your memories; a collective mother embracing each and every sibling, child, ancestor, and descendant.
Her structure is softened by the flora of time, and fauna of progressive steps. They all lead to her, return, rest, communicate, seek.
She teaches you the deeper lessons, and holds you on a path - skin creases, future pieces, cupped palms protected by insulating gauntlets.
Not Charging.
You throw down the gauntlet of society. Only carry vital items to visit her for she is a strict parental guide adjusted by the changes she allows you to think were your choices, decisions, and preferences.
Go to Settings.
She has become an addiction, a sanctuary for the remnant, a perpetual destination for those who return in body, in mind, and in the ragged gap between dreams and the afterlife. You need her, are drawn back to her and propelled by her. The future will never be completed without her pillars of familiarity in your mind.
She has taught her children to tolerate and care, to climb, to dig, to find, to be kind, to defend, to crouch low, to leap across, to share.
The poison she clings to is the substance of armament, yet a wedge holding open your stolen doors; she nurtures your growth, and absorbs.
Compatibility Mode.
Your nameless names were scribbled on the face of her crumbling skin, forever.
You will never escapee her polarity while ever thought rides the fair ground of her past. She weeps with you and heals you with every question as a daily therapist sitting nearby.
Wife. Eye.
You are joined at the hip with her and, with every year of creeping weather and vine and migratory flight of birds, you resemble her, assemble within her. You tremble, shiver, believe.
Shut Down.
She is Pripyat.
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