I fold the continents up, like some oversized map; crease obscuring some town in Siberia, meeting it’s horizontal counterpart in the middle of China. The earth collapses, sucked into its center like some black hole; the fabric of it’s surface taut, then stretched, then nothing, blackness, the moon slowly drifts off, dazed at its newfound freedom and unsure of what to do with itself.

Feet curled back in a reverse fetal position, as if in a long free fall, but there’s nothing to fall to, anymore, no sky to dive through. The sun is brighter without an atmosphere, or maybe without the shade or the ground or maybe the atmosphere is still there but so disorganized it’s indiscernible…

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