priss

when we discuss priss, we start with:

amiss

adrift

assist

added to the prior three.

no, wait, scratch each's first. i found my place when it stayed, erased by Nine's bladed waste; she found hers when i undented the shingles and kept Nine away. we'll disregard that, though, since our end came and went and we only began yesterday. for now, all you should know is that our beginning rushes towards the end we await, that the circle comes complete through the Internet's 0 and 1. spiraling, spiraling, spiraling, yet rooted to a seat. story of life, in a sense. story of observers and bards, of tales and wails, of the same laughs and cries and whines repeated across the planet, all caught in parabolic motion tethered at a point. places work similarly, in loops that dip outwards in periphery then swing back forefront. our tracks, too, forever persist, but our parallels don't always match. zero, one

two foot-pairs
placating unruly Nine
with their presence.

when we start with priss, we must discuss her weight and our balance on the scales. that's not to say priss held big bones (well, she did hold -mine-, but that's besides the point) with her body-skin - on the contrary, her willowed frame barely clung to her past cover, a tan-sheen soft as raindrops. rain is a heavy liquid, though, the sky's sadness and anger brought to earth, and everything poured in her vessel convinced me she descended from perspiration. her movements, malleable but perservering even in the tortured gale; her observations, poignant as cloud-shapes structured by our thoughts. she'd pierce to the center of folks, men, women, children, puncture sheets, aerate their carbon dioxides with her supplementary energy. pull all the untouched secrets out, awaiting a catalyst, and turn them substantive. create a product with their boiling heat.

like a tree.

our story, it's clearing up.

she always liked trees.



we met in Nine as children world-wide do, driven by an endless search for knowledge. of ourselves, of our people, of our habitat. where we were put, why we were put there. simple things. die-rected. little wordplay involved...more, play with words. experiments, in hand and eye; circles made with one, imposed over the other, our fingers imagination's swiss army tools telescoping the world. we tested Nine's mossy waters for others like ourselves, dragging heart-pumped thermometers that sometimes showed red at outward sight, kept blue for personal view, across green landscapes hiding brown sludge. but when we touched, we never dug that deep. the surface tickled enough, fancy as a bug, clicking and buzzed. always a buzz. that's where priss ended, with the buzz in the clearing.

so she began.

last of all us.

rooted to the end.