111. [Broadcast Mind]
You aren't cold. This is notable due to the way your skin is bare and the way the snow settles in your hair and melts on your face - diamonds and water droplets, gathering at your feet and tingling between your toes. You aren't cold, though it's the north and the north is always cold and ice and dark skies - long nights, and blizzards, and even though you can see the lights flickering in the windows of towns beneath you and your snow-covered feet (bare, like your breasts and your shoulders, and your face).
From this distance, it looks as though you could reach out and snatch the city up in your little palm. Crush it to dust and splinters and broken, bloody bodies.
(You say "it looks," as though it isn't true. But you know that you could. That your fingertips could find every heart and every brain and every bit of bone, even from here - that you could touch the spirit of every man, woman and child beneath you and even from here, you would hear them screaming, and it would be--)
You draw your hand down, let it rest at your side, wonder why these thoughts make you feel so good. Wonder why they make you so afraid.
....there's a pile of suede and fur and cloth behind you - a cloak, as white as the land and the stars above your head and the moon glowing pale like pearls against velvet. And you can remember, once, there were flowers and fruits, and a laughing family at your side, back when you felt the cold. (when you felt. things.) You remember there was a river, and your father lifted you on his shoulders and he had an axe and you split his neck open with it, and you screamed and you never stopped screaming, or...
Or did you? Were you dreaming?
Is this a dream?
You hold out your palm and catch snowflakes in it, and they melt against your skin that is not-at-all-cold. You hum, too, quietly under your breath. A familiar tune. (How did it go?
Now goes the sun above the trees -rise
Now comes the moon, and sun sinks below
Now comes the tide to break on the shore
Now comes the stars that command the night skies
Now comes the flight of the birds at morn.
Now comes flight of the clouds above.
Now comes the music of rustling trees
The music upon breezes borne, my love,
The music upon breezes borne.
When comes the
You don't remember when you started singing, but your voice is soft like chirping birds, and you know this even though you barely remember birds. Everywhere around you there is light, and you're hungry, so hungry. You'll be hungry until the last light flickers out.
From this distance, it looks as though you could reach out and snatch the city up in your little palm. Crush it to dust and splinters and broken, bloody bodies.
(You say "it looks," as though it isn't true. But you know that you could. That your fingertips could find every heart and every brain and every bit of bone, even from here - that you could touch the spirit of every man, woman and child beneath you and even from here, you would hear them screaming, and it would be--)
You draw your hand down, let it rest at your side, wonder why these thoughts make you feel so good. Wonder why they make you so afraid.
....there's a pile of suede and fur and cloth behind you - a cloak, as white as the land and the stars above your head and the moon glowing pale like pearls against velvet. And you can remember, once, there were flowers and fruits, and a laughing family at your side, back when you felt the cold. (when you felt. things.) You remember there was a river, and your father lifted you on his shoulders and he had an axe and you split his neck open with it, and you screamed and you never stopped screaming, or...
Or did you? Were you dreaming?
Is this a dream?
You hold out your palm and catch snowflakes in it, and they melt against your skin that is not-at-all-cold. You hum, too, quietly under your breath. A familiar tune. (How did it go?
Now goes the sun above the trees -rise
Now comes the moon, and sun sinks below
Now comes the tide to break on the shore
Now comes the stars that command the night skies
Now comes the flight of the birds at morn.
Now comes flight of the clouds above.
Now comes the music of rustling trees
The music upon breezes borne, my love,
The music upon breezes borne.
When comes the
You don't remember when you started singing, but your voice is soft like chirping birds, and you know this even though you barely remember birds. Everywhere around you there is light, and you're hungry, so hungry. You'll be hungry until the last light flickers out.