The wild, braided trail of a meteor clapped and cascaded across the top of the world with the sound of white light slicing bright purple firmament. The Sleeper, with his skin smooth and a vibrating kind of cool, remained embedded in the warm, dusty seat of slate. His fingertips sat in small pits of sand by his scratchy feet, the nails of both telling with cracks and wear and unimaginable stillness an ancient and hazy history of much movement on much land in some time.
His breathing was nearly a pause and quite heavy. His eyes seemed perfectly comfortable to remain closed. His garments sat firm and married to the light dirt of the passing air. The silhouette of his form enlarged and shrank away against the humming red of the fading light on the horizon.
Just a bit more, he, over the course of years, thought to himself.
Miles away, the meteor landed violently and alone in some trees and time went on.
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