DIES, DIED, WILL DIE.

Magicians levitate. My atom simply failed to fall. If an atom could be suspended indefinitely, well, why not an apple? If an apple, why not a city?

Droplets fall, as they are wont to do, and needle the ocean. Waves—rapid-rabid white—hiss into ridges upon ridges upon ridges like the roof of a cat's mouth. Their tiny rowboat acutely delineates even the smallest turbulence. Their bodies rock with a train-commute ease unbefitting of the scene. Gray fog (merely a courteous synonym for sulking clouds) cocoons them. In this moody storm, their head-to-toe yellow rain vestments are the brightest feature present. Albeit, the only feature visibly present. The rest of their persons (their nigh identical faces, their ginger hair, their jackknifes tucked in their knee-high rain boots) and their rickety maritime watercraft merges with the dark deep. Robert—exhausted—ceases his rowing and scaffolds his palms on the built-in thwart to remain upright. They embark upon this recursive embargo, this incessant exercise (to and from the lighthouse) as consistently as any body conscious individual. Indeed, they've got the body to prove it: unconscious and swaddled in a black tarp, rocking along the rowboat's bowed floor. Robert's hands are darned with thick calluses; Rosalind's, immaculate. The abandoned wood oars point out from the boat like polite pinkies.

you have waited three long years for this. i am sorry. this is probably the dopest, most flattering and lovingly analytical message i have ever received. my god. thank you, anonymous. i will write a little drabble of them having to interact in and with the public eye.