Description

The finer strands sway in the warm, dusky air, perceptible only to the dying. No, perhaps not strands; they are more like long, white gossamer inklings of a remote and metaphysical man-of-war falling, reaching down from high above, down through ether, down through the high, indiscernible stone ceiling, down through scream-filled air to melt into wrists and ankles, chest and hair, to silently shift in the poor light, to savor.