Flaying, lashing, the owl descends like a broken elevator. Noisily and fast (like in the movies, the snapping cable always sounds exactly as it should, a metallic whiplash) in its Icarusian fate. But the squawk of mythology, like God, is dead.
"When you were a child did you ever season the skies of your Crayolascapes with those curvy-lined birds, the ones that looked like smooth-mounded lowercase 'M's' or gaping 'V's with a little too much arc on their mirrored peripheries?"
Who is she asking, the heavens are devoid of even a barrenness these days (this is not some Existentialist ploy or a simplistic, symbolic representation. I am not capable of such things anymore, anyways). Thus spoke those harvestmoon eyes and those airy projections that resemble something like tufted horns.
"It is a fact," she says, "that two eggs are always laid but only one ever hatches."
"What happens to the other egg?"
"It is left to rot. If it is not carried away by something else first," she shrugs.
His walrus mustache quivers as it tries to brush away his mouth's grimace all on its own. The hollow bones hit the pillowy forest floor in a silent crash but the earholes keep scanning for that something to sink its imperfect step in.
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