Akasha’s Bookish Spine

The monkey beings with faces like tesseract dreams spoke in in an unfolding as they shifted a sensual planar experience; they sent one through not in or out.   Their faces were amorphous and it felt as though you were looking into a vacuum of depth encrusted with the constant remapping of alluring reworked perplexity.  The more you peered the more dragged into their eyes you would become; drawn within an intangible, breathtaking, quixotic acknowledgement.  These mirrored cubes bridged stargates, spurning our understanding of the galaxy basin, much as the phyelopian tube teleports our speicies into the gloved world.   Cubes within cubes; lodged within the nexus, the medicine of our singing ancestors, establishing an unabridged arcane knowledge of time.

Drawn in the furrows of the time dragon’s ancestral markings were unfathomable answers to the universe so profound there were no questions nor ideas of its existence.  Grooves of delicate crystalline pulsed upon it’s skin etched by an engraving tool foreign to human perceivable conceptualization.  The being’s skin was made of understanding, recognition, and frequency although it’s density outweighed dark matter for those that are under the impression that these things aren’t of the most weighty substances in the universe.  A layer of a plasma-like energy had uncurled and egged an awake dreamer; an erudite librarian and book worm.   The time dragon pulsed into fragments of time for it did not need physical movement to peel the idea of motion.   Within the recess of a spiral staircase which was it’s spine; Akasha’s skeletal frame became tunneled corridors, buttresses and the pelvic bone opened an intricate archway devoid of a keystone.   There were six known wings of the unheard of time dragon’s body; composing the most complete canon of creative writings.  The library consisted of all fathomable books, art, music, sculpture and projected windows housed within the inner sanctum of the Dragon which she secured unconfined by time’s restraint.  Arteries of doorways and clandestine passageways; which revealed rabbit holes to other realms lodged within the fold of her birth canal.

The despair kissed his lips a thousand fold; and the torrent of tears stayed wound within his chest never really abandoning the shelter.    The sadness gathered more metaphysical velocity as the reasons which the librarian’s wild oscillation remained unexplored.   He dreamed of dragons, fairies, comic books, music with a fuzziness and distorted quality, and an requited love that never made her way back into his bed since the starlight speckled beads of wonder.   Oh, the weight of this measure struck deftly through the skin of his heart prison and lay wormed into the hull of so much dissatisfaction; no more, no more, not much to say about that specific awareness.   The high beams were shut down; a procession that bore the quality of realism masked with an undiluted magic that lifting


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