Summer was swollen with the promise of flies. In my loneliness, I sought him where dying earth met the clotted sky. Rejected by grace, we picked our way through shattered melodies, the bitter wreckage of our own disaster — dream, as thunder shared its secrets of anger and loss. In my languid fever-trance, I turned and watched the stars fall from his eyes. I dissolved myself in the acid-bath of his tears, and, fading, found redemption in distance, my lost horizon crushing ever inward, infinitely smaller than it was the night before. The notes of our discord flowed unevenly over the open mouths of self-inflicted wounds.