Snippets I

It was not sunset, but the ghost of one. A faint, jaundiced orange painted the clouds towards the East, the skeletons of westward trees silhouetted without shadow, shadows themselves. ----------

The mist wept in the brightening dawn, its cold tears scattered on the moss and lichen that crusted the ruin's stone. It was like walking in wet cling film.

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The sun unleashed a light from within, filling the hills, fields and rivers until they overflowed, adding to the sun's light their own richness, making it brighter; light that was tactile, a physical, touchable part of the surroundings, as much a medium as the air he breathed and the water running next to his feet.