the freeing of atlas

blackened hands and ember nails. the bones that run through him now are distended, sighing under the release of pressure and contorting to contain themselves within a skin that sags and overhangs him. like a veil over a defeated bride. in these first hours of freedom he walks and at the end of this, his road, there is a fractured house, crumbling, inviting him in, asking him to save it from the weight of the heaven that waits above it. he knows more than any how futile this task is. the lights will eventually go off. at first in certain corners of the house and then, all at once.

he would much rather live briefly under a fading light, under a falling house than in the whiteness of stretched hours, winding roads all leading back to the same wilting house.

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