Oh.
She can’t see the stars for the shroud of stormy winter weather which thoroughly wets the wasteland. In fact Marama can’t decipher day from dreamtime in the dark dour that drenches the desert and the doe, down to to all her dull, dim depths.
Perhaps if the precipitation could pool up all the emptiness in her atriums, it would cause her heart to be far too heavy to hail the haste of hysteria.
No. The only hail is from the frothing weather - folds of clouds turning from cold and wet, to cold and crisp, as it clatters onto the coal skin of Marama. She’s standing on sand, she might even be sinking, as she doesn’t know the last time she’s seen the sky. Not that she minds - no - Marama knows, even if it’s evening or not, that the moon is only half full.
It’s only half full like the figment on her forehead, which she recoils against reading each second she stumbles upon her reflection. The third day of rain has ensured it easy that the anxious equine sees herself in shadows of puddles that soak through her skeleton and slice at her soul which hurries like the wings on a hummingbird.
Hurrying to what? All there is is rain and her abyss, rain and abyss. She’d much rather the rain, which is why she stays, wet, in the wild winter, staring off to the slipping sand dunes of Asheforge with hail shining her skin, wondering if she fell asleep in this storm, would she sink or swim.
Everything is temporary.I'm completely unprepared.
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