There was a voice in the wind. A whisper. There is a man on the horizon, standing, just shimmering in the light. The conscious follows itself, taunting defeat.
How comforting, that my thought, even this thought, is the product of nothing but cold reality, colliding atoms and chemical reactions. My relief is meaningless yet relief all the same.
Narrative short, 2022. In development.
written and directed by Connor Ryan
Jón gave me a book of runes. It’s ancient. It’s falling apart. The center cannot hold.