Resting in the decadent shadow of a perfunctory monument (my grimace analogous to the way the sweat and grime that cakes me is insoluble), rising in a way that should be unpalatable to the field of vision of any living thing, I gained the first inkling of what would befall me. The transcendence of your eyes in order to be able to fathom the depth of their presence was first described to me by my progenitor, who researched with a fatal lack of hesitance. She documented furiously in eldritch chicken-scratch the first step to removing the layer that bulwarks your retina: an extraneous section of iris. The method is crushing 17 eyeballs stacked up neatly in a row beneath your boot without missing any of them. The monstrosities cling to the tower up to the vanishing point where it swallows the sky and all of them speaking to me by entering my brain and all clamouring to be heard at the same time. Language that I understand but also don't, its easier to visually transcribe. The only apparently clear thing is that they want me to climb. Stepping furtively towards the crevasse through which the tower is spewing upward, my pace was slowing down and speeding up at the same time and every football footfall football footfall was being made redundant. Tarmac, mud, riverbed, gravel, sinewy flesh floors breaking open to all layers of stability, continuing to destroy and repurpose at random until I stop trying anything.