So what do we love, in the end? An amalgam of carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen and phosphorus? Or a projection, a shadow, a signal that blinks off when its physical progenitor ceases to draw breath?
So what do we love, in the end? An amalgam of carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen and phosphorus? Or a projection, a shadow, a signal that blinks off when its physical progenitor ceases to draw breath?
It would begin as an emptiness that churned and expanded in Hajurama’s stomach, gutting her, carving her from within.