Who are you?
He wants to call out into the dripping fog. Who?
He is loud and brash, and foolishly brave, but in this moment, he cannot speak.
This girl, this being, whatever she is—
Makes him shiver.
It isn't that she is frightening—(in fact, she is almost…beautiful. She is calm and luminous and arctic untouchable.)
It is that she is sad.
What is it that makes you so sad? He wonders, deaf to her lonely lagoon cries. Her step is a ghostly sashay, smoother than ice or oil, or a combination of the sinuous two. She comes down the deserted night street and nothing touches her (even her feet float above the asphalt) and her cold ashen cheeks, soft and glowing, are pallid lamps that spill out tendrils of mist. She breathes death and life from her blue-rose lips, a sleeping frost that is a whisper-rain lullaby.
The way she moves is indeterminable. She walks towards him, but at the same time—
She is going nowhere; her feet touch nothing and nothing again.
Do I know you?
She is bound by chains that hang in the mist and rattle against the tire-worn stone, in the wind of the foghorn that the dead blow. She looks to him with a gaze that is neither pity nor scorn.
He can't make out exactly what it is about her, what quality makes her so—different.
(I am…the daughter of nightfall.)
Guh. The joys of spam continue to resonate! ;; Man, this is weird. I sort of got 'inspired' by one of the scenes in King Kong. Yeah. And then I totally changed it.