Everyone is talking and through all the vibrancy of the words, the brilliance of the conversation and all that, individualism still abides. The world is not lost and never shall doom or gloom be desparate for someone to share that last dance with... As the bones merrily wither away from inside, the husk that turns in the night, and lets out a deep sigh is there for good reasons. Not good enough to eat, perhaps. But good enough to look at though the lone hours of clock ticking dullness. The sad hours before dawn when you are not quite sure. The darkness that is cold and silent.
There. Through the dull black a tiny shimmer at first and then a shake in the air. Before you know it a bright sprinkling of stars disturbs the gravity and pulls dust out of nowhere in a collusion of density. Before you can think any, it bubbles up and there is liquid and its all frothy like it was whipped up like the sea in a storm or cream standing at the passing blade of the beater. Jees he thought it was time for the storm to subside, for summer to be over and the bodies he buried to lie dormant but this man is falling and passing by the night is old and soon the images of death and destruction, be them as they may be, shall fade and the dawn will break and all hell will be let loose.