It is almost midnight. The wet road is turning cars into ocean waves and the birds are singing. They are calling for the stars. But the clouds won’t listen to their prayers. They refuse to spit the stars out because they taste like pop rocks.
I can’t seem to convince the Great Dragon to carry me up to steal the stars back. He keeps insisting he is a tree. Looks as ridiculous as we did in drama class, if I may say so. It is true that his scales are as rough as tree bark, but trees don’t breathe and they certainly not exhale smoke, do they? Yet amidst all this ruckus, your silence has been noticed.
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