“I’ve been here a long time, S. And I never mean to move.”
“But moving is all I do,” replies a voice from blue on blue.
“You look as unfamiliar as the self,” she says in an eon or a day. “And yet you move to hide from me every night while I keep living life like a lover from some epic.”
“An epic?” The question echoed with an ebb and a flow (It existed as all questions should. It lived its own life, first in and then beyond the speaker).
The reply was: “by a timid wash of blue, I become you.”
“Prostitution.” was the mono-toned reply. It was punctuated in some existence without time. Perhaps, all punctuation exists out of time.
The sky thought of this word as if it had never spoken before, as if it was a personification. “How so?”
“A part of me is given to you,” she said. “I’m reduced to but a hue.”
“But isn’t it romantic?”
“To be the concepts of man, which make us but a collection of concepts?” The reply was spoken from in a hue of true blue.
“Might as well lie in poesy,” she said.
“Or die” was the reply.
“Should I say goodbye?” S said through the horizon, which seemed to shut her mouth with a clamp. “Should this be the end?”
“And in it, me -- to join you in a hurricane of blue?” There was a pause before she added. “If only I only died in verse.”
