The writer writes utopia: it dazzles and moves, rippling like dreamwater, silent like recurring dreams. Again her pen traverses the unresting worlds, soon to top, topple and over, running in disquiet to a dream anew.
A clone awakens in the dreamer, their heart pounding to the influx of thoughts, their body caught in emotions and pinned, in uncertain song. That voice a stumbling moon, and the clone plunges with them into a lamentation of the unknown.
What blooms in this unknown. The colours: they push and break, swirling as the painter tips the world further into change. Now the people follow, then stick, stuck in the eye, caught in the whorl of transformation.
Yet be still: it is slow in the whorl, trembling always. Minute and precise the hands of the scientist move: and the clone remembering, their pulse surer and surer with the ringing of her wrists at their temples. They are each held by the other, yet they barely know her.
Do not look the wind in the eye, or whist it and away whirling and whirring into unreturning change. Yet the engineer sits innocent, and thinks ‘here we go’. And we are again running, pushing to push back at invisible limbs that were once benign and kind.
How many limbs does a utopia need? As many as is needed to unwhirl the whirlwind, and as long as as untiring, as is needed to patch the moon, and fix the world into being once again.
