The stars don’t hear a lone voice blending with everything else of this universe.
The eagles short, white feathers flash in between the never ending fall of the black sky. This thick darkness swirls around the motionless light blue waves, which are full of squeaking fish slowly chasing prey.
The morning rush hour speeds and swerves around my flat body as it rests in the salty sand. Barmen hand out crunchy ice cream to the passengers on planes that can’t fly, while kites help people laying on the ground, or floating in the ocean, to stand up.
It’s not unusual for dogs to hate walking on the pavement, preferring to splash in the sweet river, along with feisty squirrels, underneath the sharks which cling to the tops of juniper trees, snapping their blunt fangs in the misty, colourless air.
The petrified owls resting on my arms see what I cannot say. We don’t see the silent stars, we see the breathing planets. There is life that we all remember living – at some point – on one of those lonely globes. The birds lie when they screech barks of the world’s ending. This world can never end because it’s not alive.