whiterice
She squints at the blazing ball of light. What could it possibly be? Where she lives, everything is dark; there is no light. There should be no light. Light had disappeared eons ago; it had disappeared along with all the sea-creatures, the creatures of the sky. Light shouldn't exist. The sky shouldn't exist. Nothing should exist, not anymore.
Sparkling, blue, beautifully clear; the creek calls out to him. The man reaches towards it with his fingers, licks his parched lips with a dry tongue. He would cry in happiness if he had tears, if only he had tears; he would have tears now. He has water now. He cups the water in quivering fingers, and drinks; he drinks, drinks, drinks it all though his thirst is never quelled.
Something untouchable, something ancient; something which was written so long ago the narrator doesn't even matter anymore, the author doesn't even exist. It's so far away, and yet with us, all day, every day, in our lives, all the way.