The Young Man walks up the road, down the mountain from whence he has come. The Town ahead sprawls like a spider, fat and comfortable in its immense age and reach. The sun at its edge casts a bloody light that pierces into the Heavens with a strange certainty. The Young Man heaves a sigh of relief. White clouds come in from the mountain. They are too far to worry about, though. There was plenty of time.
The Town is waiting. It is always waiting. Since before time begins, the town is here. Its age is measured by the Clocktower. The Clocktower tolls its message clearly through the skies. There was no bird who could not be cleaved with the Clocktower's message. It speaks of days gone by, whispers at the edges of town, dashed hopes, diced dreams, sprinkled lightly with whistful thinking over what was, is, can be, will be, should be, would be, will never be.
Here, the coast, he picks up seashells as a baby. There, the ocean. He plays here as a child. Here, the cat in the box, he finds and nurtures it. There, the cat catches the neighbour's parrot. Red blood, green feathers, blue eyes. Her eyes…Here, the school, abandoned. There, the Clocktower, a fallen wheel. Here, he is saved. There, he is falling, falling, falling…
Blue blood, red feathers, green eyes.