FOSSILS OF THE TOWER FELL.

         1.) Fragments of the First and Only Tower of Eos, be they skin or sediment. Preserved primarily in silt colonies, scavenger territories, river beds, cities without outlines or upbringing. Remnants of the age are fossilized in free fall, arms open to absorb the blow, eyes outstretched and screaming through the stone.
         2.) An uncommon currency among criminals and captured men. The worth of the fossil is determined by the warmth and pulse it has preserved. Those without decay are said to reveal an escape from certain fate. Their value is incalculable, held like a lifespan packed into a prisoner's hands.

         Jillison, I thought there would be more to say. My eyes were top heavy, traveling in reverse, they kept teaching you how to disappear from me.
         There was no sound left. My storm tent was soaking wet. Even the birds were secret and barely cut through the sky to speak. Did I need a working knife? A cloth to cover the organs I couldn't keep?
          Walk right over it, that's what they said. The sky was too short sighted to tell.
          I told you to drop it. It didn't concern you or me. I should've known by then.  You yelled through your first mouth and then a fire door.
          It was another reconstruction site I couldn't hear this time. There was a sinkful of broken glass and cans and I wouldn't listen to it again. My ears were wrecked close and then I couldn't see where you went.
         You always left like that, bricks up to your neck and bones broke out of the rest. When you were gone, the blankness went with you. Two years, one day I was in an identical place.
         Did you ever wonder what I did? Pinned rain, red air, it was all pretend. Wishful thinking. We were going backwards Jillison, I couldn't believe you bled the echoes out of me again. You should've seen me. I told them you'd be home by the scaffolding hours. I didn't see it coming. I said I'd keep the storm tent open for you.
         All the unbelievers, the ones that built the birdless sky. They'd been right about you all along.
         I went over it and over. I knew you would've said my organs were opening on their weaker side, but that was wrong.
         I wasn't petrified or unprepared.  I wasn't petrified or unprepared.
         I'd unwalled enough and saw the same lesson leaving naked each time.  If it was all I had left, I would learn to dress it as a deafness, my wearable absence and defense.

GOD OF TECTONICS.

          The God of Tectonics was believed to represent an extremely large accumulation of lives and afterlives—intrusive, extrusive, or both—located the anatomical core.  The definition of both God and Tectonics has been expanded and refined, and is still a work in progress.  God is now frequently used to describe voluminous areas of, not just mafic, but all types of metamorphic identity.  Sub-categorization of God into continental categories and chronological drift, and including pressures produced by tectonic processes, has been proposed.

          Natural evidence of the God of Tectonics remains inconclusive, while other possible remnants may have been dismembered by anatomical tectonic motion, such as the Transfinite Rift—the before and after effects of which are found throughout Eos, eastern Hestia and Themis, and north-western Amphitrite.

          While the interaction between these continents (localized but ever shifting) lacks a defined cause, a number of Gods (i.e. a mechanizing force) have been represented in the history of anatomical geophysics, allowing for a diversity of insular or anecdotal interpretations of this still indeterminant influence.  The God of Tectonics in particular, was believed by the hollow born (those born without identity) and the fossil born (those searching for purpose in the performance of anatomical metamorphosis) to be the originating fault line of the afterlife itself.

          How much does he know? How much does he know? How much does he know? How much does he know now.

          Not used to being behind there.  First time in someone else's eyes, without allowance to go to waste.  Did you think I was a talentless actor, hacking at a role, least of all authority showing? Did you think, now it all makes makes sense?  The distance.  The abstraction.  The anger.  The confusion.  

          Absent by whose definition.   I didn’t have a plan (hidden or purposely vague).  I mail fail, be a failure.  Did you think she did this to me too?  How well do you know the tectonic processes, how much of the research have you done?

          Transfinite Rift.  Unthought known.  For once it had nothing to do with you.   

          In terms of transparency, there wasn’t even a tally.  I have considered my options as carefully as I am capable of.  Could barely explain what it meant to be obsolete now.  Nobody know.  Whole forms flawed, a disconnect between the mechanics of the body.   All I could hear was a thicket inside.
          There is nothing wrong with me.   There is nothing wrong with me.  There is nothing wrong with me.  Shame is not a solvent or a solution.  So I don't try.  I don't hide it.
It’s not where you find all of my kind.  Ghostless to know, fossil born, afterlife neither eternal nor a form of interpretation.  Honestly, nothing has happened at all as I expected.  I never thought anyone cared if I got back to you.
          A god is a glacier, a gemstone, an accident of dust and glass.  A god is the only continent left in your place.

          What now?  A continent of lost addictions, clear as erosion, the littlest sands caving in.  There was no common sense or realistic approach.  Most likely, one of us will ask for this to die first.  Another trench where I sleep.  Where we sleep?  Differences between.

          If I don’t get out of this body (these bodies), off these continents alive (alone).

          "I didn't recognize you...  from a distance.  That's supposed to be my job."

          Were you motivated by jealousy, insecurity, lacks of perceived ability?  Did you think things should be happening faster?  If I could save one moment from the start.  See?  There are more than a few.

          An argument out of habit, there is little difference between nothing and everything happening.  This is how it is happening.

          Yes, I will wait for you.  Where you found me, up on the (continental) shelf, grounding my apologies, keeping the attic shadow hidden.  Curating, collating, collecting.  Not making progress, not making choice.

          Composition as a cycle of consequence and condition.  I would be lying if I said that it didn't bother me.  I think because I created, with the mistakes I made in my life, I created a picture of me.  That's not me.

          All light is the afterlife of mass.  A compromise has to count down.  Rules have to change.  Can’t you tell there's no one else around?

FALSE MARTYR CARTOGRAPHY.

  Martyr cartography was the systematic transformation of events of an anatomical body onto the surface of the tectonic continents.  Although all map projections demand a distortion of physical form, some irregularities were considered acceptable whereas others were not.  Therefore, different projections existed to preserve the core of the self at the expense of the surface.

  Originally used to understand physiological (or psychosomatic) suffering on the tectonic surface,  certain projections of anatomy may have contained deliberate errors or distortions, either as “scar tissue” or "gender dysphoria" in order to help the original owner identify errors of the misrepresented, misnamed, deformed, or nonexistent body.
  While many maps of anatomical tectonics clearly advocate or depict these inaccuracies, those which display an inability to comply with the transformation of the original body have come be known as examples of “false martyr cartography.”  These maps are now often used to locate others imprisoned or executed within their own anatomy, playing a significant role in afterlife recovery and transfinite relations.

  Jillison.  What contours now are clearer than what came before?
  You've been drinking all night (and day).  Still repeating to me the same secret you can't (won't tell anyone else.  Plague water still your only map to nothing to say.

  Latitude.  Longitude.  Everywhere is an identical break down Jillison.

  You just want to ignore as much as you can.  Talk about black me out weather, trustlessness, language backing up into empty space.  Saying to me over and over, I don’t ever want to be us.
  Bottles covering the floor.  Castle points cracking in your voice  Torture rituals (self versus self).  For all the years I’ve known Jillison.  It still felt like I was on my own, alone.  Adjustments to anatomy were only surface deep.  A rotation of body blindness.  Core kept opening and closing.
  Jillison, consciousness causes collapse.  We are here now.  Can't make a map of anywhere else.

  Center of your eye like a compass screaming at me.
  I remember you Jillison.  Awake with your maps, north and blind, south and unable to breathe.  Weak and shivered thin, diet and stress interchangeable, terrified of cracks in the hide.  Still puking?  Jillison.  You said it wasn't going to be same (again).

  Mapskin creased over and over.  Kept blaming it on the answer you couldn’t become.
  Like writing you meant I owed you, an obligation (gesture) toward understanding, certainty, elimination of possibilities.  An identity held, at least, temporarily.
  It was all a cartography of illusion points.  An embarrassment, in every direction, shame, denial of chronological drift.  Continents gone into hiding.  Jillison, I needed a perimeter, an apology from you instead.
  I wanted you tell me (even just once, Jillison), there’s a reason you are here.  There’s a reason you stay here.