The oldest language in the world is something that we have never given a name to, something that we share though rarely speak of, it occupies the space between us as we go about our days, some have even written that it literally is the area between us, that it inhabits the infinite space between our molecules, pours out in a vapour, and looks upon the world through the dim lens of our eyes.

It comes for us when we sleep, the oldest language, tickling our minds, riddling across our skin, outracing our blood.

They’re preventing us from finding that mass of land that’s fallen into the sea. Think of the architecture, the temples, the weird technology. The ghosts that roam the thoroughfares, the art that they created, probably more sublime than our brains can comprehend.

But no, some faceless bureaucrat entombed in his dime store suit and clip-on tie, pushing paper, and enslaved by an obedience to something he cannot understand, sinks our boats, invokes a nullifying field that blanks out drones and silences our texts.

They fear our radical truth.

“Brother, I can’t even find my goddamn keys, I don’t need to hear some bullshit about the fucking government stopping research into a lost continent. What world you living in? Now get up off your stone ass and flip those cushions so I can take us to lunch.” | image by @norrisniman