In the dark, they thring. They thring towards the blinding light. They thring against the fences, up the stairs, at the railings. They thring, arms upraised, reaching their electronic eyes in the palms of their hands towards it to see, to record, to remember.
Are they thriving? Are they thirsting? Are they furthering? Are they throwing or flinging themselves forward? They are thronging like some large multiform dark evolving thing. They are thringing. Continue reading