Five
This torn-off sliver of murmuring water sits in stark contrast to the rumble of the great myriapod above.
The tiny scrap of open water attracts detritus, caught in the brambles which twist and curve producing an illusion of an entranceway. Amongst this hang rags strung like a washing line on the thorny stems.
Did someone leave them here? Or have raggedy hopes found themselves at this site of Interchange, hanging wisp-like in a new kind of cave.
Whatever the history of the lands at the underbelly of Spaghetti Junction, this is a place to enter Otherworlds. It is a between place, not quite this, and not quite that.
