There is calm near her, but she can not know it. If you could see time race the way that she does—for she is four hundred and some forgotten years old—a day would be a mere hour. The rivers that surround you do not hug, they race, and to where you do not know, and will never know. For your only ability to move is to consume. Everything around you becomes that which you have devoured like so many carcasses. There are those who are like you, who are punished and perish when their little gears stop turning. And then there are those who are not like you and they move with sweeps with no angles, no edges. And that you cannot understand. You make out dreamy things like birth and death but have no idea what all these little combobulating circles are on about. They care for you, they cut you, they gut you, repair you, make you new, they multiply, but all those you love are senseless and they speak some strange language you can not and will not ever understand. With them, it is:

when will you be are She’s just not It’s that tall, I mean you can’t you coming I’m almost that’s the way the gone just like that meeting And I always will can we split wouldn’t believe you take Avenue we always birthday Sometimes I feel like really is dangerous I can’t of course I’m happy That old already? in her best form Suddenly Not eight, no way Do care for you so much not hang up on me if I can’t be there The weather’s gonna’ be real why aren’t you listening nasty 500! 505! just around the corner Delicious! Mommy I just want extra for the chrome finish bar of soap In a world without the snail simply devours its and there you have it.

Their lives are in you, happening inside you, and yet, you do not understand their code.

Until one day, one arrives who sends peace and quiet. Your ancient age is allowed to slow enough to hear him because he chooses to speak across years. And he speaks of wonderment at your monument. That speech, that connection, is precious, and you would do nothing but to speak to him. But when you open your mouth, a mess of

only when I’m brightens and whitens tales that are listen closely children best served table for two is a good book that I watch when people get married in the not so distant future of being good and kind to the land before it’s too late

comes out. So she often turns her head toward her nature and gobbles. And for years she hears:

I mean it motherfucker I’m gonna put the bag in if you don’t do you want to lose come around sex Just need one more little can you spare 500! 505! when they die I will not have stood by if only we could We today are gathered Why from these chances Believe in gone Motherfucker!

But she gives him, the quiet one, she gives him pictures. She has been with him his whole life. She can show him things

Other than that and before him It is an awful existence. So, sometimes, when she has time—and she has so much time—particularly on warm Spring days, she looks to the silent ones who have been with her for so long but do not speak. Over and over they grow, turn green, turn yellow and orange and red, and turn skeletal. She is glad they are with her, for they know time, but they do not speak. They do not seem to want to. It is not that they lack the capacity, they simply refuse.

And it angers her. For she would give anything to speak. Why shouldn’t she just tear them down, limb from limb?

Read the whole thread: The Hunger Engine

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