Swirling. Spinning downward in a hurricane that you have spun. Trapped. You can feel the bottom looming, gravity should very soon provide a nasty crunching consequence to this floating whirlwhind you have created for yourself. But as you wrestle along, struggling to float, no crunch comes. And that just terrifies you all the more. Anticipation can be both a delicious and a dreadful companion. But tonight it chooses to be the latter, and it chooses to be alone with you.
For alone is what you are.
True, many friends and loved ones are near, but their faces float just beyond reach, just beyond that part of the gale that you cannot seem to stick your hand through, no matter the motivation.
And so you sweep along, wondering when it will stop. For stop it must. But when it does stop, what will the wind leave behind? A demolished landscape? Or a polished stone? Perhaps both?
When the wind stops, which storm will follow?
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