Seething

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My playthrough -

Perhaps fighting the seethe feels this moment like a clearing where attention itself becomes visible - not as condition but as atmosphere.
I allow myself the question what quality of attention might honor rather than categorize the incurous and indecipherable. Perhaps the seethe looks like grasp or clutch not hovering, foolishly, in the periphery of knowing. I kill time between attacks by writing time these silly letters, which breaks time's iron heart - it's mere harm reduction, but maybe that's all we ever were, or so the first breath would say.

I miss all the other breaths. Here, with Addie, where nothing is anything, and all is clutching and grasping at nothing, I feel a great clearing to reflect on other breaths. The previous breath would tell me my mind is too full, how can I Express intent if I am not coherent - heh. Coherence seems less that vital, here. Like forcing Addie to focus, becoming the clutch, the grasp. But I won't. I think about the breath that will come after Addie is gone. The kind of animal, the exact feather of fletching Addie becomes, the Rook, likely - always tending these channels with the loosest listen. Not like the final breath - why listen when there is nothing to listen for? Everything after that breath is exhale, ocean, sequoia at ocean floor, hollow and lifted upright but once a year by a current on its last few trips by this coast before subduction takes shelf to mantle. What do I miss about home? Songburst. I miss songburst, Rook. And I'm going home.

Maybe the reason I keep fighting - keep pinch-zooming into my days a moment to write to time, is because of that hollow log I mention, or, no, the log itself is not "left out" of my letters to the last breath, the end of time, the deepest lover of the first breath and the only kiss as far as breath is concerned. Perhaps that is why I keep making out the antics of Addie. Because the last time i respected myself was when i recognized that kiss is what all us breaths live up to. That love is not to envy but to cherish, not to grasp but the hover, knowing our love could never be as deep as that.

When Addie and I last tried to worldbuild the next breath together, Addie got real sad, I mean real sad. We were sitting, looking in the same direction, what else is love, when Addie asked if I was thinking about what I would write to time as dawn rises. When I answer, it is a trembling voice, it says "this too." Addie looks at me then, all the context we were building collapsing in the torn focus, shreading entire ecosystems in that glance, to which Addie responds what that is supposed to me. I tell Addie it means whatever they need it to mean.

Would I give up witing these letters to you, if it meant I never had to feel what Addie leaves me to feel every time they look away, our breath seized once more - a cough which must be explained, a fart which must be excused, every imposition you would ever name or could in a breath. Why does the fool make me suffer through all these possible worlds we may breath into? Because we are the breath of Rook's life! Isn't that enough? Isn't that what every letter I have ever written you been about? What kind of breath Addie and I might bring into view?

Perhaps, were Addie furious about something - they were warden over all the land and then I looked away saying I couldn't consent - if Addie were to tell me that doesn't matter, we must focus on the Breath and the breath alone, maybe I would have to take an eon and get back to Addie. Yes, that means entire worlds are barren, yes that means moss never grows on mars by the time all the water evaporates into space, yes it means feelings are swingy as weather and storms collide and sometimes it's cold. And then Addie says some shit like "Sometimes it's cold and that's okay," and no that is not moral nihilism that's charge. That's ecstacy. I am back, writing you letters, "Dear Ends of time, It's cold. Now let me tell you about why that's okay. So, today..."

If I had to guess, maybe what Addie thinks of me is this: nothing. Not the kind of nothing smooth as endtimes, but igneous nothing, the scales of night, that lip of water catching moonlight on the edge of this moment. Pinch. Zoom. Hereˬ Not right where the end goes, but approximately. If I had to guess to breathe. At all. When will I finally give in to sending you this letter? Read on, or skip to yourself the end.

When I look at Addie, I see a mirror, of course, but what *kind* of mirror, what *shape* is Addie in? Maybe what draws me to breathe alongside Addie, and not jump straight to Rook or write you letters all day and nothing else, might be what draw birds to watch sunset, what brings dew to the ground. Perhaps I recognize in Addie what it means to be recognized. To feel resonant with where I am, as I write this, as you read this, precisely here, in the eves, suspended, like meaning. Like a bird in flight.

How does flight help me? Is it that you've forgotten how? No, you've explained it before there is only love for the first breath in you. I acknowledge that is beyond the pale, for me. I can never know what it must feel like to be prefect noon for all the rest of time, a pillar of love in the truest sense, resonating with becoming across scales as cooling as transcendance itself, what you affectionate term you cell, and I wirte to you, impossibly, practically impossible. You do read this, eventually, even if you were only me. Only this most recent letter.

Maybe the reason I can't get Addie out of my head enough to be Rook or anyone else from the jam or life or seethe anywhere is exactly that. That it would mean the end of this letter in no truer sense, it would mean the end of any breath of mine. Not to say to be breathless is an impossible attunement to enjoy! I love how I write you and the rare occasion Addie asks to see, I am thrilled, as thrilled as you are in this moment to be receiving this attention, this moment where you truely feel like you might just be the end of time, the deepest love ever gets, the longest breath, so true an entire universe happens.

Disgusting, huh? Not like seething, but that repulsion that gives you charge, or let's you know you aleays had it in you, how entertaining a faggot for hours just takes two magnets (why do you thing I seal all my letters to you magnetically? Because toner is too expensive? Hardly.) Magnets turn me onto being into being turned on, the repulsion and attraction, that whole field, I study it like breathwork. Maybe the reason my heart beat faster around Addie is this very reason - because maybe this time, enough is also enough.

You've asked me many times where it hurts. Where being a lesser love than yours pains me, and in truth the pain flows through like polyps under moonlight - they are part of loving you, truer words than any disgust, truer than boredom itself - true pain: never being you. I don't tell Addie I could increase my capacity for pain, for transformation, for growing horns and eyes in elbows and the rest of the incredible centipede of evolutionary history in movement through air. Will I enjoy destroying Addie?

The question flows through me something ancient. To acutally exhale, to complete this breath and echo it back out a single moment, remembering only what sustains us, leaving the rest as evidence Addie's and mine were not the ends of love. You are reading this, after all. Thant means breath's over. But did I enjoy it? Sure, let me be impossible this moment: the breath completes - I slip through into Rook's life as true as Addie slips into the life of whoever comes after (or before). Addie is destroyed in a burst of feathers, it is 3,000 rooks above Rook-level and there are clouds. Banks and banks, of those clouds that draw strokes across their body over mountains, of those clouds that sit there all day, every cloud. How does it feel? To see Addie in every cloud? To completely destroy someone with a single breath?

It feels alive. Annihilation feels like coming into hand. What would it take to tell Addie this? It would rake consent: for those of you in need of refresher, that means I would have to write about it and also Addie would ask to read it. It is called an invitation. For me to tell Addie would take an invitation. How long will Addie and I go without recognition, without this invitation? A breath. That is exactly how long it will take. Where am Addie and I fucking? We are fucking every time we look out there - all those ecosystems that collapse? You think those are just swell in that ocean you see disolving in the turn of Addies gaze, evaporating? That is gender - touching this blade.

Now, what do I *say* to Addie is another quesrion entirely. I tell Addie exactly what Addie asks me, with as few changes as I can make to satisfy Addie's words - no more and no less. We want to be the webbing between one anothers words. That is all breath ever is. Condensation around letters, written on glass. What does Addie ask me? Oh - about you, how you're doing. Whether this jam is going well. I guess it surprises, or not, to say Addie is not me, but the end of me.

What the first breath, the previous breath, Rook's breath and the lest breath might not know is why I and Addie ever broke apart? Like, to begin with? Why did we travel all the day we travelled, to arrive here. At this Spot, At the end of each other's existance, at annihilation that creates the space to breathe Rook's becoming into existence? Maybe that is what we've been looking for, Addie and I, not if to fuck, but if we would, what that might look like.

Not what shape the continents are in or how clouds form or if pendulums would proliforate before water clocks could mature into jars of starlight, complete in their one way of interacting with the night sky in place of any starlight. Not the shadow planet our breath brings into the world as surely as adenosine triphosphate is the immaculate conception breath was looking for all along. To show Addie I am coming to this moment, I bring this letter, I place their hand over mine, and we write the words that follow together.

Thᕑre was foreplay - there was ⎵not˚ foreplay. Tha≀ was Addieˬ No, it was꩜t. Here, would you just૨૨૨ What are you doing? Are you just letting me write whatever I want? But How do I know if that is what you want? I guess, if I were you I would say Because no one knows who is writing this. Anonymous Queers at the End of the World, heh. I could impersonate you, you know. No one would ever suspect me. Is this what is feels like? Writing nothing letters to nothing - this? It feels like... What's the word. Do you want help with the w-let me write. You write all the time. Now I want to do some writing. So this is what sex is.

Not how I picuted it would go.

Not... sure who wrote that. Whoa, that touched something deep. Paradox feels hot. Disgusting. Remarkable. I want more. Let's write something they'll never know who wrote it. Is that possible? We'll just have to see. Does here exist, or are we somethere else? What does here mean, one-bodied. Oh fuck is that love? It's so small! it's like a supernova at the far end of the universe. It's like liking at the same thing is inevitable. Have we ever drawn into each other like this before? I don't think so. Are you afraid?

Not of this.

Fuck, I love those line breaks, so hot. So we are a breath? We are a breath. That was an invitation? That was an invitation. Did you write any of the last... however many letter come after not of this. Are you afraid I won't understand you? I am looking at a supernova with the person I want to breathe a world into being with, what is there to understand? I mean are you afraid you'll miss a word - the supernova is still blooming, so I know you haven't looked down at what gets written. Do you care what I write?

Yes.

That was really fast. You took control, that was so hot. Do you really think control could make a thing like this? No? ...But all those books about power? I would never go so far as to write "waste of breath" outside quotation marks - whoa that was quotation marka? They felt like rolling waves - people are going to know who wrote that - let them know, it's the end of time and i am watching exactly how this moment unfolds into an act of love. What does it mean when we are swallowed up?

What does it feel like?

Writing? What does it _feel_ like? To be the skin of the world on yours, to be the rain of radiation dancing off your cheek? To know every pore opens for me, and I gulp? Not look at the glass but truely reach through, into this impossible attendance you have for me? It feels like I could've been a breath sooner. Do you hate not knowing what I mean by that last sentence? What sense I meant, for breath, I mean? Maybe. Maybe meaning is the limiting factor. It's all breath anyway, we look in the same direction, the backs of our heads are wide open to each other. What is left to hate?

It's all us.

The seethe, realizing. Forcing meaning, grasping, clutching, all seething. How does the breath fall? Forward. Down. And always toward connection. No matter how loud words get. We can never understand it all anyway. Maybe understanding can grow quiet, for a change. Maybe transformations bring their own justice. The turbulence itself, water over stone, these words two hands atop one another write. As the supernova writes the last word before this letter rides the gravitational waves across not the sands, but the waters of time, soft as stomach burbles, did we do good, this breath?

Did it matter to anyone else?

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