I've sought the stillest air. Awash in the dusk to talk with the moon. "We are not meant for this place," the cold stream whispered to me. Softly. Sweetly. Our hands have unwound the sea. We are transient. Our monuments illusory. We'll lay our head on the roots and wait for the rain. Arms outstretched to the sky burning in the light. Gently, blissfully, until the leaves bind our tongue. We will be forgotten. We will turn to dust.