Work Text:
He wants to know: why did you leave the world black for six years? In 1s and 0s, 8-bit dreams, suns descending on yellow-red waves, Dr. Coomer had wondered the answer. He can wonder two minutes more. His model’s edges cut a silhouette that pierces muddied backgrounds like a single clean circle on a ruined countertop. You’d imagined frayed hairs, not perfect polygonal shapes.
Answers on your tongue: Another game. Another friend (foe? Easier if so). Dreams that drag you under turbulent waves ‘til no breath comes.
You choose: “Shit went wrong, man.” You’re fucking scared. What can you say?