Fortune’s fronds brush the brisk air gliding along glassy pearls of grassy dew.
Mist sprays the dawn with an echoing ecstatic eeriness that will exhale the full presence of all the day’s humming eventualities.
A rising cascade of this cotton-air caresses the edge of a slit-windowed stone church in a skirt of the city-centre, sucked off the surface of the emerald flatgrounds below by the gilded horn of Torricelli’s trumpet from its jut out of the clouds above on behalf of the cherubim.
But suddenly, what’s that?!
a shuddering crack of light and sound and a fade into the ever-exfoliating whiteness of the void



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