Sep 10, 2025
He moves through the night upon wings that are not his. The silver dragon bears him aloft, and the sky kisses his face.
Above the clouds, above the filth and breath of mortals, he soars. Beneath him, the world turns in quiet ritual; sleepers twisting in their fevered dreams, liars mouthing their nightly farces in dim lit rooms, lovers seeking comfort in the silence between midnight and morning.
He is beyond them now.
Above it all, he flies-- aimless, unmoored, unclaimed. The air is thin here, the stars distant, and he feels no tether to the prison of a world below. Only the rhythm of wings not his own. Only the hush of wind and the hush of thought.
He is free.
He is alone.
And for once, it feels the same.