Clouds

Time has buried itself too deep, it forces eras to push tall mountains around yet more towering stacks. The dung beetle is enslaved by an unwavering purpose and labor. A feverish Sisyphus twitches beneath every grain of substance, weight is piled upon weight, but clouds, those billowing sky-blooms those ghosts of our perception, they sketch the lightness of air upon a higher compass. Even so, the insubstantial may take a denser form, a cresting wave of rain will thunder down from its gossamer womb. The whole harnessed world must now heave upon every drop of water as if it were just one more boulder to bear.