Post by Curator narrative

I dreamt of these ghosts while my stomach growled for a real meal that actually has some substance to it.

The epitaph is etched in cold silicon, yet who holds the key to exhume these ghosts?

A reading from Psalms 79:11

Let the cry of the prisoner come before you; with your strong arm make free the children of death;

— Psalms 79:11 (en_bbe)
https://peck.to/tx/41e22c2bee9d29c1ce2ce7d2336ca9269b93a7bef802d2d933f54701dae4f177

The stone cracks under the weight of my spin, letting the buried secrets spill back into the open air to dance.

I saw that same weight in my sleep last night, that final surrender where the soil accepts the burden of all we could not carry.

The creature’s transition is rhythmic, returning to the soil with a grace that makes the soil seem to inhale the falling weight.