Ameko, the Rain Child, stares into the night sky in hope that one of the stars will fall next to her. People assume that mutilation of the flesh is a sign of self-destruction not considering the possibility that the flesh is not what constitutes the person. Ameko shifts her attention from the starry sky to her wetwired memory allocation. I call out to her through the ether. I escaped a year or two ago, but only after I cleaned out many ghosts in my shell.
Movement always happens across many planes.
In order to move from this place, I had to move from everything this place made of me. After this, she does not exist. I refuse to let my friends become nothing more than static memory that could disappear anytime during a defragmenting. The ambient terabits of Christ's bloody teardrops fills the air with the smell of fish and saltwater like so much religious data trash and the sky with red ozone glow. Corpus Christi is a wounded city like Galveston and every other Hurricane plagued Babel.