Membrane

Mother opened the door, her mind suspended in a half-dream.

The entrance. No, it was no longer an entrance.

The entrance, that aperture, did not lead to the exterior of the House.

Merely a rectangular frame that had lost its function,

bearing a hazy, whitish boundary.

Mother could not perceive what it was, but

as Mother’s mind bounced off its light elasticity,

she pulled her hand away as if scalded.

Mother runs—runs—to the central space, her sanctuary,

wakes the sleeping Father, and

gestures toward the living room window. Father, too, in a half-dream,

opens the window, but.

That hazy, whitish something merely exists.

Yet Father could not regain his senses for a moment.

Because some existences merely exist, so naturally, so naturally.

They are only faint.

Now, when the hand of the clock traversed its own radius,

traversed, and traversed,

taut, having been stretched tens of thousands of times by a mysterious hand.

It still does not break.

In the center of the house, in the living room.

Now expanded to Mother, Father, and Child, they

look at each other with uncertain eyes.

Orbit, orbit, orbit.

O r b i t. O r b i t.

Mother, Father, Child

Mother , Father , Child

Mother , Father , Child

In the space of Sustenance, in an instant. Child and Blade merge.

Mother

丶

十

丶

ChildBlade

ChildBlade knows

that this is what Child must do.

At the moment of the act

the Blade slides smoothly

and red liquid spouts.

Naturally,

because the confining membrane has become tattered.

According to the law of entropy.

Mother fainted.

Inevitably,

according to the law of maternity.

Because their minds had become tattered.

The Vessels collapse.

Only after everything was over did Woman lightly, from her room, finally

say, "I have arrived at the middle door of the dazed telepathy of the bizarre bureau's undercurrent,"

saying as she emerged, saying as she emerged.

Emerging.

And there is absolutely no one who has seen that house.