EowynCwper

My dear John, I came up here looking for the thought of you. Why? Well, they would say I am closer to you here, but as you know I don’t believe in those things. Really I think it is the solitude. Nowhere else in the city can I gaze upon its tumult and be truly alone with myself. Even the sound of all those frantic machines ceaselessly moving about does not reach me here. Oh, I know… You would scold me for wanting to run away from it all. You and your machines! Understand this, my dear: only then, when there is just me, can I remember what it was to be with you. Only when I lift myself above the smog and the people, and the city turns into a map of itself, can I summon in my mind the cherished times we shared. Trust me – were my tired knees to abide by my wishes more, I would come here every other day. The elevator is a blessing, for that matter. Come to think of it, up is the furthest I go from home these days! What a funny thought… Or is it sad? You seem so far away now that I

The Aching Maw is on the move. You can feel it in the subtle, a tad too sudden changes of temperature; the hens' unrest right before dawn; the eyes of fish are they are taken out of the water; and the brittleness of newly felled wood. High above ground, rows upon rows of teeth are gaping and snapping, seemingly at nothing but clouds and the few erring birds capable of reaching such heights. As the fangs grate against each other, a gloomy tune is played to which the Earth answers at its core. The huge, wingless body extends behind its mouth into a short, fin-like tail, the lack of abdomen contributing to an unnatural, stubby form. Lighter than air, the atmospheric chimera propels itself forward with unknown purpose, but unspeakable power. As it floats there, defying gravity, currents louder than the sun course through the air and stone alike, imperceptible to human ears, reshaping the world. Somewhere a child watches a flower sprout and bloom within seconds, its petals bleeding gold

I used to think of beauty as a complicated thing. It was a treeleaf falling slowly to the ground in the autumn, or perhaps in the spring. A mother's tender gesture as she wiped tears from her child’s face. Molecular bonds rearranging themselves in ever-changing and mysterious ways. A painting that seemed to capture a feeling unique and special, conveying it with abnormal accuracy across time. The smooth sound of a well-maintained engine. The teasing, intimate, willingly-given sight of a naked body—or a finger tracing the shape of yours. But of course, humans adapt. Here I am, having reached the absurd age of fifty-five, sitting on the edge of a world with no treeleaves, no children, no more tools to observe molecules, and no one’s body to share. Wondering why I am still alive. Around me are bleak mountains and the toxic lake at their feet. The sky is forever cluttered with the same dull clouds as yesterday and the days before—thick, sick-looking clouds that never bring rain and devoid