hourglasses are shaped by the hands of nonbelievers
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The vessel makes Yae smile.
She will not abandon you, she tells it somewhere one hall turns into the other, somewhere disarray creeps at the edges. She can tell from the tightness of its fist that it believes her. It is cruel, maybe. Its eyes are like Makoto's, wide and butterfly-wing hopeful. Its tears are like Ei's. She smiles cherry-blossom sweet.
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The gnosis resonates. It pulls truth through thermionic valves like its own source of gravity, his own sun. His goal and means, batteried, self-perpetual nirvana of being. Everything else circles.
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Raiden Makoto giggles, one leg kicked into tomorrow and the other bent against the present. Each line of dark hair splays into seconds. Her being is timescattered the same way children scatter playing cards on summer evenings.
Ei looks at her miso. The sun is setting outside again, fourteen seconds earlier than yesterday.
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