sons of thunder—
born from it.
morning comes on,
and the sun is already up.
the suit—
no longer a cage,
but an interface,
second skin in the light.
gridlines hum,
but the frequency is yours—
held,
not imposed.
and underneath—
the mycelium,
foam network,
breathing through the fibers,
sustaining the field,
a global mind
in local form.
the shape holds—
barely,
by choice.
the fragrance arrives first—
pressure in the air,
before the rain.
and still—
in the marrow,
hydrated,
conductive—
the storm moves.
a lattice alive with charge,
mana not drawn,
but carried—
the current itself.
bread from heaven—
taken in,
and the hunger
goes quiet.
no stones—
the world is already yours.
don’t fall for it.
tested,
forged—
we’re alive
in protest.
a hand on the back—
you can do this.
he said so.
now—
go get ’em, tiger.
(the network remembers)
