will feed its kind, for which it will reach for the core of its planet.
It now knows only perseverance, for which it will stretch its stems, for which it will drink the molten, for which ittion, to memories of mastication.
But its words were glutted on. Whatever wisdom it once held long reduced to echoes of satia

One might answer. The one that entwined all the secrets; The one that twisted in the depths; The one whose magnificent limbs, once royally blue, were washed pale by the ripples of time.
Suppose there is a kind of existence: From the moment it first feels the embrace of this reality til its final dissolving into nothingness, it craves perseverance. Whether for itself or for a "greater iteration", it craves perseverance only. Shall it be an enigmatic mechanism, a con-traption of someone's design? Or shall it be merely an end which, with or without interference, must be met?

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