seasonal depression
The trees looked like blood gushing from broken arteries, paused mid-splash in the air.
Brooklyn got sad sometimes in the fall because of things like that. When the world was cracked open, bleeding and dying, or interchangeably it was on fire and crackling, and the leaves they stepped on crumbled into ash. And as much as Garland talked about sleep, and hibernation, and how in a couple months life would go on and as much as Hiro talked about volcanoes and their ash—Brooklyn couldn't stop just being sad.
He knew about months, and he knew that half the planet slept while the other half awoke. It was just being on the drowsy half, as it weakened and yawned and its knees gave out under the intense exhaustion. It was just being there for the end of another era of daylight.
Standing in the nighttime of half the world. With choruses of fleeing geese in your brain. And you just got the feeling this was something to run from. Sleep was to be avoided.
And as much as he tried explaining to Garland, at 3:30 in the morning, it was kind of hopeless. And things like that made Brooklyn sad.
a/n: BEGA for feather-duster, who has earned every word by virtue of cool.