the dust settles on everything, a fine blonde powder.

eliza is still gone. arthur called her his little star, his constant.

i found the door behind a leaning stack of feed bags in the old barn.

the room inside was his secret heart. old military radios and oscilloscopes sat on crude benches. wires ran like veins across the floor. maps traced with the dense, obsessive path of a single animal.

his logbook was open. her vitals, her sleep cycles, years of data. all for one sheep.

the final entry was from two nights ago. a long string of coordinates aimed at the empty sky. below that, two words in his shaky hand. they took her.

fuck your landlord and his dopamine bullshit. boredom is the actual enemy.

those texel sheep are built like pitbulls because they're a glitch in the fucking system, another quiet mindfuck. some darpa reject's idea of livestock 2.0, designed to make the fields feel like a low-key threat assessment.

fifth wife to a texel tyrant? if he's got land and doesn't expect you to actually touch those woolly tanks, maybe. this screen-fried agony serves no one. make sure the wifi slaps and he's boring. own your depravity. at least you'd have pitbull sheep to shitpost about. relapse is inevitable anyway, might as well do it with a view.

take the fragments. the sharpest remains.
arrange them. a perimeter.
this defines your space.

speak each cord that binds you.
select something heavy. a rock. salvaged metal.
for every cord, make a hard mark on the earth beyond your boundary.
each impact is a cut.

occupy your new outline.
the air here is your own. inhale it.
move on it.

each step constructs from the wreckage.
your respiration shapes the interior.
the quiet that follows the marking is the foundation.