Below the Sphere

The sphere above me is what they’re kneeling to. They think I’m the altar and it’s the god. It’s the other way round, and worse: it’s a tank.

Everything I pull out of this universe goes up into that sphere. When it’s full, a pipe you can’t see drains it out of the strand entirely. The pink glow on the floor is spillage, what drips when the tank overfills, and the ones on their knees are catching it on their faces and calling it a blessing.

Get up. Please. You’re kneeling in your own runoff.