Dusty summer suffers to fly as high as it would, on wings of torn blood. Innocence though, is slow to consider horror and fast to remember the primordial joy of time beginning anew each second. The air doesn't struggle to be air. Messiahs and moths naturally soar towards the brightest light. The patterned waves in the unwatched ocean carry on as if life and death were old friends, sitting amicably to lunch.