Bara Cailín 5: 17 ‘an eventual rhythm’

Everything always finds an eventual rhythm and the end of the world is no exception.

The sky is now so black that day and night are only useless memories of a time.

Before.

Where once beautiful clouds thrilled their audiences by floating low and slow across the city and then out to sea they now lay sullen and black and heavy and still.

There is only rain now. Hateful hellish rain. And winds strong enough to make you walk double as you go about your pitiful business.

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