The dead man walked through the marketplace with bowed head. All averted their eyes. He could have stolen, had he wished. Who would stop a dead man? Indeed, the goods he traded would not be touched until they rotted or were stolen by those more desperate than wise.
He paused at the landing-place. Men, women, and children launched into flight beside him at every moment; his own wings hung in tatters on his back.
To fly is to live. To lose one's wings is death. This is the law.
The dead man shuffled back to his cave in the cliffside.
Whimpers From My Bed Of Woe
1 day ago