The clouds dream around without pause. Something has changed.
Something wakes me midday when I know the Typist is not here to nudge me from quiet imagination of coming things. Without leaving the chaise, I roll over and scan down along the west coast. No strange airships. No steam trails. No missing pixels or sim warnings. The surf five hundred meters below me is silent white lace skipping along glittering blue. I can’t hear it. Except I always hear the ocean, even when asleep.
I send a question out on the aether while I slip into pants and shoes. A firefly of data pops up and drops the answer in my palm.
Having read it, I close my fingers around the bright spark. Finger-gates swinging shut on a mortal drab of immortal legend. Bards never die. They lift our hearts while they craft and then we carry their words on when they are gone to sleep.
Rest thee well, Bradbury.
I place the dandelion colored spark from my palm into my favorite book and close the cover.