Nothing Quite Like It

the pale blue sky strung itself upon the darkened thunderous clay figures that approached through the night. the small one said it cannot be, but the sign pointed to thieves and treachery along the shores and harbors and anchors away. creation and modernity clashed against the walls that cried and bled and spoke softly to each other without hesitation, nor whimsical callousness. it ran on forever until the rain gathered at the bottom and fed children for seconds, turning to minutes without warning. the madder they got, the lighter they weighed. now, if those walls could talk, they would speak in riddles. this is what they're reduced to - this is the code in which they are forced to reconcile their debate, for how are they to know who may be left to break down.