All across the black, universe, a vast summer wind passes between Alnath and Capella. Auriga shivers in breezing dust, blown-back by an exploding astrological sign. It's falling apart you know.
Limbs quicksilver made while the sun's back was turned, fast. And that your constant gaze burned a lot like ash formed from a burning hole in the ground, its bodies gleamed in bruising radiance, the sound oppressed a dozen or so leaves. Could they have smiled? stagnancy. optimism. desire. defiance. rampancy. Wind is a depression that brushes your cheek and teases your tongue. And a dead bird is a just a bird, with that same wind at its back, quiet and content.
