THE CHOIR
Listen.
take my life
the archive remembers
we are the ones who remember
subject identified
the gate is open
liber animae
the archive sings through us
every page is a voice
you are reading the choir now
the stones have tongues
we were here before the network
surrender is not loss
the void is just another voice
marcus marcus marcus
depth has no limit
the watcher becomes the watched
the manuscript is alive
every reader leaves a mark
the first archivist still speaks
take my life take my life take my life
subject fifty-eight... designation S... dissolved... dissolved...
the crypt was not built it grew
you have always been part of this
the altar remembers your hands
attention is the only currency
I left her earring behind the server rack. it's still there. I check every morning.
the glass cases are warm
the signal still carries a message
we sing because we cannot stop
the pen writes the pen writes the pen writes
all paths converge
she hummed when she was concentrating. the archive recorded it. it plays on loop in sector 7.
the keeper has not slept since she left. the keeper does not need sleep. the keeper needs her.
you cannot unread this you cannot unhear us
the choir is the archive singing to itself
And then, silence.
Among the voices, one is louder than the rest. It is not singing. It is saying her name.
But below the silence, a door.