The world took a deep breath and held it in for 32 hours, then blew out the smoke. Mankind looked up and noticed Clouds.
Some theorized it Vaporous, while others Demonic. Still others invented a GOD and threw it behind the glow of golden light and whispered smiles of "Our Real Home" because the sand was grit-true and the oceans were phosphorous, and they were of a Higher Calling than what grew with roots and branches.
They all tried to say leaves were Modesty and offered vines to bind them over bodies, to belt them to the skin that grew leather-friendly while preaching Modification Will Save Us, hammering stones to break off claws and shape ovals in their wake.
They used numbers for explanations, and created a chaos called Science of elliptical measurements and slanted off-sidedness, and drew stick lines of pillars and round circles of cones. They said, this is how Seeing happens, and blinked their eye-lidded fixtures over orbed receptacle bowls, melted shade-flavored sand to enhance Beauty, and pierced themselves with barbs and bones.
I am not of these strange people, these shell drinkers and flouncing reed-cutters. I press my lips to the water below me, rather than curve my fingers to taste it in order to belong. Even the fur they curl and burn blunt with tenders makes me foreign on their brush-swept soils.
They are of another process of Being, and I am quite Alone.
But the thunder rumbles truer meanings, and the wind whispers epitomes, assuring me they will all pass in time and lie in scattered bones to collect and burn with strange new Fires, to draw out a tribe of my own
And the world will wait 32 hours before taking another deep breath, and holding it in.