womb

Through chaos, again to the source: that warm comfortable living room lit with golden lamps and lined with thick beige carpet that, sensing an arrival, loosens a few soft strands that grow up and weave around this tired soul torn by time, lifting and suspending it inside a weightless cocoon in the center of the room, the world. Within the soft capsule, a slow disintegration: skin slackening, sliding off, untwining muscle, sinew loosing bones that drift like islands, sinking and dissolving, all released in this primordial brew. No pleasure to seek; no pain to resist. There is a rumbling, and the cocoon trembles and expands and bursts filling the room with its black fluid, blotting out everything except the quiet beating of a heart renewed. Another chance. Another chance. Another -