Peering down into the water where the morning sun fashioned wheels of light, coronets fanwise in which lay trapped each twig, each grain of sediment, long flakes and blades of light in the dusty water sliding away like optic strobes where motes sifted and spun.

But I didn't know what to say to him. What do you say to a man that by his own admission has no soul? Why would you say anything?

In his dream she was sick and he cared for her. The dream bore the look of sacrifice but he thought differently. He did not take care of her and she died alone somewhere in the dark and there is no other dream nor other waking world and there is no other tale to tell.

He'd half meant to speak but those eyes had altered the world forever in the space of a heartbeat.

The soft black talc blew through the streets like squid ink uncoiling along a sea floor and the cold crept down and the dark came early and the scavengers passing down the steep canyons with their torches trod silky holes in the drifted ash that closed behind them silently as eyes.

People don't pay attention. And then one day there's an accounting. And after that, nothing is the same.

If people knew the story of their lives, how many would then elect to live them?