There was an ocean above us, held in by a thin sac that might rupture and let down a flood at any second.
The eyelids of the burdened clouds let fall cascadesOf rain, and the parterred garden is spattered with drops.
Birds Through a Ceiling of Alabaster: Three Abbasid Poets
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The eyelids of the burdened clouds let fall cascadesOf rain, and the parterred garden is spattered with drops.
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Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions. You change direction but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn't something that has nothing to do with you, This storm is you. Something inside you. So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn't get in, and walk through it, step by step. There's no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up the sky like pulverized bones.
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Be the sun breaking through the clouds.