Inwardly all seems well. A stalactite hangs grinning, dripping its name so slowly you can hardly hear it above the humming of electrical wires. This is no cave. This is no abandoned street. This is inward, and inward is none and all things.
"Stay," says the nameless speleoth. "You must."
But though inwardly all is dark and well, you know, I mean you truly know, this place is no place for a person.
"You are not a person," it lies.
Hands made into anvils and arms boneless so they are muscled-strong as dock rope you swing away, breaking apart generations of collected whispers until, inwardly, there is light and a path now growing beneath your feet.
There is a fruited tree ahead and you set your gaze and walk and then run and then sprint and then fly for every broken thing to see. Listen to their cries, weaker than before and for sure defeated.
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