It's a wonderful feeling that flies below the permafrost. An all-assuming race, gathering daydreams underneath the crust. In a word, it is cold, but in another, it is lovely. Poisonous spots and a rabid sun, one single luminous star. It is like this high up and for years. For years things are sheltered and protected. For years things have time to live in sin. Some great law, swooping down on decomposing jealousy like a dying vulture, praying for a final feast. Breathing, collapsing, it is a risk some are willing to take. It is retaliation, it is eternal, and it has scientists baffled.
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