Talk about the whether
All the jerky-in-the-wind-litter clumps like lost kittens and the leaves are grounded fledglings. Turbulence and pressure pockets unravel the evening sky. There is infinite mess smashing against itself infinitely, like love and bosons, throwing off spinning splinters of Newly Created, before decaying into anxious and obscure remnants of the done and dusted. The mess doesn’t care but I’m scared.
This kind of power can’t be trusted.