Another Friday, another foray into the Friday Fictioneers!
He still sleeps beneath the tree.
It’s a strange sort of symbiosis: He breathes out carbon dioxide, which catches in the branches and is turned to oxygen by the tree, which in turn allows him to take yet another breath, again and again and again —
The sun follows suit, filters through the leaves, reflects off skin, fades, rises, briefly burns.
Cycles, he thinks, and wishes that memories could do the same, could transform into dreams that might suspend his disbelief and so sustain him too.
But even here, the memories are pale and the air too thin.
Check out the rest of this week’s responses. :)