What need, Dunstan wondered, could someone have of the storm-filled eggshells?
She was the storm, she was the lightning, she was the adult world with all its power and all its secrets and all its foolish casual cruelty.
Sometimes big things happen, and they echo. Those echoes crash across worlds. They are the ripples in the fabric of things. Often they manifest as storms. Reality is a fragile thing, after all.
I can get away before the storm hits. Away from a world in which opiates have become the religion of the masses.
The war had begun and nobody saw it. The storm was lowering and nobody knew it.