Tears brimmed with surprising speed. He was my child. He was tangled into me. His name, his cry, his colic, his anger, his thieving, his running away, his wildness—all tangled into me.
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It nestles close to the heart of the city, where the lord rests. Spun in silks and truths that taste of lies, in the storyteller’s market which is Samudhrapura’s glory. You’ve always found it ironic that a lord who never gave his tale away had fostered the silken market where all stories can be sold.
But it was more than what it was then; it was perhaps the integral consequence of years of scurrying around, of making do with life with less than a whole of one’s heart, the calculus of one’s life upset by ever-widening circuits of concerns in which, repeatedly, one was entangled.
They are spheres of light with orange-red tails; incandescent, ethereal tadpoles falling towards you. A shudder permeates your bones as the destructive aura of the meteorites becomes clear. It replaces your awe with fear.