---
id: "codex://object/behind-the-eye"
archive_id: "behind-the-eye"
slug: "behind-the-eye"
url: "https://ndcodex.com/objects/behind-the-eye/"
type: "scroll"
title: "behind the eye"
summary: "Sepsis behind the dominant eye, just across a nebula, 32 light years away."
date_published: "2026-04-06T14:06:06.133Z"
date_modified: "2026-04-06T14:06:06.133Z"
status: "published"
visibility: "public"
language: "en-US"
axes:
  scale: "meso"
  depth: "recursive"
  focus: "witness"
  function: "therapeutic"
themes: []
constellations: []
tags: []
keywords:
  - "Scroll"
author:
  id: "nathan-davis"
  name: "Nathan Davis"
  designation: "Archive Operator"
  role: "Archive Operator"
  handle: "@nathandavis"
  avatar: "/media/people/nathan-davis.jpg"
  bio: "Designer, builder, and curator of the Codex Archive."
contributors:
  - id: "nathan-davis"
    name: "Nathan Davis"
    designation: "Archive Operator"
    role: "Archive Operator"
    handle: "@nathandavis"
    avatar: "/media/people/nathan-davis.jpg"
    bio: "Designer, builder, and curator of the Codex Archive."
relations: []
media:
  - kind: "image"
    src: "/media/pigeon/scroll/behind-the-eye-01.jpeg"
    role: "hero"
    alt: "0097882E 2E0D 43C2 BF1B DCBF0B150BB0"
    capture: "[object Object]"
  - kind: "image"
    src: "/media/pigeon/scroll/behind-the-eye-02.jpeg"
    role: "gallery"
    alt: "D3BA4976 45A7 4C5D B685 02268FC1BF83"
    capture: "[object Object]"
---
Sepsis behind the dominant eye,
just across a nebula,
32 light years away.

A stretch to span the gulf,
in a breath,
the pulsing lip,
a black hole
from the missing tooth.

Pain with its hand
on the button.

Ever risk futures on tech,
no hedge.

Ever feel infection,
left with no choices.

March on the capital,
money changers,
collectors,

infection still speaking.

The lawn guy from Jamaica
just by,

as I hunch over glass.

An old man in a Honda,
on a device,
tap tap tappy.

The whole time:
robins,
wrens,
prop airplanes

overhead,

the decel gargle
of a semi
out McGinnis Ferry.

51 degrees.
Birds.

My mouth is hurting,
a week after extraction,

the site
still in denial.

My ear itching too.

The cello up-ticks in the car,
the orphan,

hendyyamps studios,
Aimee.

Trying not to worry.

Art is her reflection,
light strings,

track titled:
if I don’t see you again.

The neighbor still pretending
to do important shit,

a chainsaw rattle
in a serene glen,
battery-powered,
still loud enough.

A sparrow
squirgle squawks.

I contemplate
moving indoors,

another play,
an undulating warble
across the yard.

The pain disappeared
long enough
to notice,

to mention,

and of course
that spun up demons
just to say it.

Wallowing
in self-loathing,
fear,

North Georgia,
Blue Ridge fever.

He wondering if it needs mowed,
just now spring,

the grass
wakes up slow.

Breathe.

Come on, body.

You got this.

I just heal slow.