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In a shaded garden, with a concrete floor, Jaz, wearing dark sunglasses, and a red patterned skirt, is holding her phone with a purple phone case, and reading from it. They are sitting on a blue mat, and holding a clear bottle of water. Jaz is also wearing a black hat.
Will these bones remain pale and prostrate in the Valley? They say offerings to the Vague Terrain can activate ancestral mingling. Their scattered refrain is an incubator for descendants vulnerable and weak. For destinies arrested, interrupted, or tears mustered as speech. - We die, we live, we rot, we be. Consumed by this ground. A product of taking and recall. Both spectacle and legacy. Letters. Fractured messages litter this Wilderness fermenting with strange fruit of mimicry, rejection, refinement. Entwining and entwining and troubling the liminal depths. Hum and harmonise with my dead. This graveyard’s a family tree. And displaced bodies in displace can terraform holy, healing spaces for grief. - Bathe me in earth once again. I’ll return, through the portal I breached, to the beginning where there was only Blackness. Such freedom, I have faith I can reach. Roots are forming, taking hold as we build myself up, gradually. Dark Matter sculpted to steward the Void, adding to the Great Chain, piece by piece.