woebegone raze she is the three moths he's mashed with a hollow tomb that once held enough facial tissue to stem the tide of his tears for a time. the last of the latticed heaths survives and is remade as a reptile. her true form is only revealed when she leads him to the fire from which all things are forged. a wolf waits in the wings, moaning a melody he's almost sure he's heard before. remnant of some sombre song his ancestors sang when all was wet and woebegone. he warms his hands and hums along while kindling kicks against the weight of being asked to burn so something_wild might flood this nascent night with the cruel kiss of ephemeral light. 260527 what's it to you? who go blather from