Such a delicacy within a certain word. An individual. Let along a soft shift of a feather. Little robin opened his eyes. What was it? It wasn't darkness, no, dear no, no darkness here- yet it was the colour of death- but there was still light. He could feel his fresh heart beat and beat and beat as he blinked at what was before him, what surrounded him. "there's so many." he said to himself. How would this be described? hmm yes. What is it? It isn't darkness, no, dear no, no- it was measureless, seemingly infinite, cosmological, universal, brightly, yet dimly vast. This was new. This was cutting-edge and completely inexperienced. It was as if nobody had touched it. It was like an un-smudged pane of glass. Newly fitted, and newly untrained. Untied. Untrodden. Untouched. The cosmic time that is unlit. It almost seemed like the vault of heaven. The first day. The horizon is setting. The sun will sleep his heart away for her. Her, the moon will glide with the nights water. Her children, in the cosmic darkness. And the moons children, her stars, will watch and whisper and live and laugh, telling and telling, our own perfect work- their lives, our lives- our stories.
-fin
