a zillion tight knit cells

celibate/circle i crossed the art ic click and slipped where no mans conception had braced for decline downward i fell hoping to find ground but none appeared was i leaving space or entering? the freedom seemed scentless senseless unburdened yet captive i became brethren to rarity as the warmth increaseed images of recurrence made playthings out of my wagering organs/origins as i stripped clean my fear the core perceived my grace i humbled myself to GRAND design the root of passage is always open fer pilgrims