Genur.art

Lo; the bone clocks. Every living thing around her turning inside out. “Our bones.” She gibbered. “They’re dying.” Clocks and wheels, gyrating into themselves as time squeezed harder and harder. Ticking and rolling, towards the Watcher. The Bone Watcher, with his bony hands, and his bony scythe. Lauren, post-fact, decided shrooms were not her thing.