In the tepid colours of dusk, the mist snaked across great flanks of looming mountains, whittled out of ice. In a pale confusion, possessed of ocean shadows and depths, a plum plume of snow blew high by the storms at the summits. The last bits of light assaulted the darkness, more ambitious than meteors, sparkling like diamonds upon a slender neck.
I passed through the loftily covetous multitude of stars–jewels of the night, within a silver silhouette of wizard phosphorescence, shivering. It was cold; the dark, the freeze, the grey had permeated inside.
I scooped the dark of the ocean; its solitude so profound, so fulfilling. Rubbing the milky scent of sleep from my eyes, I asked myself, “could contentment ever be felt as deeply as loss?”