We sat together on her rock under a calming grey sky, one which guaranteed we wouldn’t have to suffer the joyful expectations of sunlight; and she put her head on my shoulder with a sigh heavy enough to prove we were shrouded in fog. The sky had come to cover us, to place it’s infinite fingers on us in comfort: the most benevolent deity we had any longer.
I did some measurements, slicing, folding, and gluing to solve what I saw as a downside to the wonderfully-shaped Holbein Artists’ Oil Pastels.
She doesn’t have anything to say, but her weapon speaks for itself.
