lay me in the lilies

---

Oh, to be born again. A flower emerges beautiful and pallid from the ground, petals as soft and grotesquely fragile as wings of taxidermied birds, covered in feathers that will never again grow, with purpose and with pride. It's very easy to tell, with dead things. They're sort of waxy and deplete.

.They drown, deadweight

She dangles at the crest of the Distant Fingertip, thinking of Azure Hollyhocks and Utopia Crocuses, and then again of Strong Dandelions and Dawn Hydrangeas and all those mystical, homelike flowers that dance below the moon.

They're pretty. I'm pretty. The moon is pretty. Hello moon.

?Do we even have a moon

Look up at the moon. Look piously.

.Look piteously

At the crest. At the peak. Oh, were she to be able to come down again. Were she to be able to be fallen, and not just crestfallen, and not too, too, too far gone beyond the pale.

And

if

I

were

to

FALL

then I don't think I would know it. I am...blinded, by...not grief. No.

The Face Nemesis visor does not know and does not allow me to know grief.

If I am not sad, then perhaps I am happy. Perhaps I should sing. Humming, maybe, a peculiar nasal sound. Rather machine-like. Rather operative. Rather very much not like talking, like singing, for there's no one around to hear. And if there's no one for me to so dedicate myself to, then I should have another purpose. Another grappling point, within the fabric of the vine upon which I have ceased to grow and now simply lay.

Useless. For I am not even pretty. That is, I try to be more. I think I can be more, but then again find myself limited.

Flowers don't need to be more. They are good enough simply to look at, and to draw strength from without a thought to their wellbeing save that which means, will they grow again? Will they show me beauty and lasting appeal again?

what if i

What if I

What If I

plucked the flowers up with my mechanical hand and they died very fast in this mechanical land and i laughed because they were dead and i was still alive look at me look at me look at me ha-ha ha HA would you look at THAT--!

Ha.

Ha ha.

The flowers are dead.

And I am still alive.

.With my mechanical hand

So feminine, I. So use

fulless

, I. So universally loved, I.

Oh, to be human again.

Oh, to be a lilywhite flower again.

If that were but I, I would find it so simple to be...me.