He hungered for meaning to sound.

"Guttural noises made for the purpose of

procreation and evolution,"

he said, dismissing language and its

arbitrary meanings. "How can these grunts

even try to describe what a feeling is?"

Dry, cold, bitter, freezing ice wind--

just words, words that didn't mean that sense

of life flowing out of you from the slice

of the wind's knives and of the knowledge that

this is what the return to nothing felt like.

In time--as befalls all Ideals--he met a girl.

He held her long after the world went silent and

listened to her breathe and watched as the

night wrapped her face in the silks of shadows,

and then he knew the truth of his conviction.

In what way could he translate the feeling of gravity

sucking the air down into his gut when he

heard her moan, or the delicate burn of her

kiss when he didn't want it? Letters and sounds

couldn't make that truly known to her.

So he wrote what he felt into the sky itself.

He arranged the heavens for her, each star where she wanted,

so that the nebulae pulsed for her and the galaxies danced,

and that the world spun because she liked the colors

of the sunsets. And she said "I love you" for it.

He had found the lossless medium to translate

his soul's device into eternal truth, but she

had simply spoken back to him...with words.

He dropped the worlds to the dirt and walked away,

knowing them no more and instead knowing only

the empty sounds of a dry, cold, bitter, freezing ice wind.


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