|synaptic disunion|

Tuesday, November 14, 2006

taking flight...

The ground under his feet was so saturated that it was soaking through his canvas shoes as he walked through the darkness. He didn't know how long he'd been walking, he just started walking without purpose, as soon as the bagpipes had stopped an hour before at the pub. North. Ever northward.

The rain, almost solid in it's consistency, pelted his face as he strained take step after step against the wind. Then, the ground stopped. He had come to it, the end of the world. The edge. Far to the southwest, the winter sun finally found a break in the clouds as it set, casting an eerie red glow on the undersides of the black clouds, and causing the chasm at his feet to seem bottomless. He knew the north sea was there, below him, he could just see the white tips of the windblown waves. Looking northward, from where the wind was coming, he saw nothing but blackness.

Soaked to the bone, and just as the last rays of the setting sun left him, he stretched out his arms, and flew. He flew forever.

Labels: diamond

: toadman : at Tuesday, November 14, 2006 |