Thunderstorms bring the monsters out to play.
Ominous bellows of clouds roll in, spiral into the sky, and descend onto the earth like an oppressive blanket. And the air, pregnant with a heavy moisture, hitches its breath expectantly. It waits for the release.
The first movement is sharp and brilliantly terrifying. It's quite amazing how at the same time one can be filled with so much fear and awe, but then, he supposes, the choice was his. He takes the gnarly, hesitant fingers as his own, and drags them both under the cover of the roaring thunder. They don't hear anything while the sky churns above their heads; instead, they move with raw synchronicity—each kiss (each bite, want, yearning) branded with an iridescent flash, each chest rising with the rumbling climax, each limb intertwined around the other's body like a claustrophobic grape vine.
What is there to be shameful about if you are there with the one you love? Here, where your entire being represents an iota of all existence; here, where time is irrelevant?
What moral matter did we have in anything at all?
Overhead, the tumult breaks. The rain drizzles away as they pick up their limp bodies, limp clothes with a sense of gravity and ignorance. They depart as the flood comes in to flush everything away, only to leave traces of shame hanging in between them.