We met on the walls without a name, watching a savage moon tear two continents apart, split them over the span of a hundred generations, high above the destruction.
He’d tell me very little, at least that I knew, but every fleeting glimmer within those obsidian eyes was the story of some other life. The wings he wore were feathered with down around the shoulders, great grey wings, white towards the tips. As he spoke each feather rose in subtle inclinations, a code of colours building conversations that danced inside my head – the breath of a thousand ghosts attended the trembling air around him, communicating many things to me at once: Crazy things, things filled with madness who’s madness marched and changed the patterns inside me whilst they danced. Whilst the blue depths turned two hundred years below, whilst two lands died and another was born.
And he told me things I would never forget, no matter how many nights felled my memories with sharp dreams.
And when he left and the crows began to gather I saw suns in their wings, tiny perfect suns. But before I could run, many dove and the sky bloomed hot light, serration’s of seamless colour cutting the sky blindly. And I awoke then under the pissing eves of the bridge, a hard feeling in my head, a bitter and grim darkness in my skull, and nothing looked the same as it had before I’d left, everything moved too slowly or too quickly, many names of things were lost.