The chaos of cloud is too bright to look at without wincing.
Assume the sun is eight minutes away and as free as any automaton.
The grass is Easter plastic couching the serialised eggs of houses.
A woman curses without swearing. A silhouette ascends to nothing.
A few dragon-scale leaves hinge clockwise and then counter.
Gojira's blackness stretches in waking dream. I rasp. I writhe.