Outro

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Island,
tracked always from the perimeter
Our interminable circle
Around its planet
More perfect in shape than its clay pulp
Our route without trade or exchange

In the drawing, I am the Island
You there, my dark Lac
Futile harvest of the soluble dye

Iron Gall ink
The Word,
Fugitive for one purpose
Composing all the while
One unit to another

Dead-colour, 2-D
But still going

Hemo-circuit become Atramentum
Red to black