A voice with no identification
mingles with the wind.
Is the receiver the sender as well? Storms do obscure. Thought trails carve impossible labyrinths.
Locked souls twitch in their shackles. Executioners lay their necks on their own chopping blocks. Audiences assembled prepare reviews for their invisible bosses.
A note presses up against a pair of familiar shoes. Eyes read the words as members of the audience check their watches in anticipation for an appointment in another theater.
There had been a catastrophe. The heavens had torn, and worlds collapsed.
Tentatively, blood flows back into the robot’s system, and the heads-up display returns. The damage control report dictates reparative action is necessary for the integrity of the soul.
A message is composed and sent into the tangled wires where two ancient labyrinths stood. A whisper returns, and the erection of a proper tombstone begins.