>>25351680
Athwart a cedarn cover. Athwart a cedarn cover.
Now where do I remember that? And how long have I been here?
Still and stuck stays the frame against the piercing of the falling sun.
It was an algae that committed the first holocaust. It had learned to breathe light and eat water, and in its wake came the oxygenation of sea and sky. All else which swarmed upon the earth or waded the luminous layers of the upper ocean then burned alive, gathering into a great blanket of cessant life left still for time to fossilize.
History repeating itself is a truth so old it is barely worth mentioning. A newer truth might be that it is certainly auspicious to be born into a world with air for food. Some bacteria are capable of metabolizing sulfur for energy, excreting it as a noxious gas. It is by a vaguely analogous process by a nitrogen-devouring cousin that we have perished, having seen sickened fauna succumb, the flora burn, yellow, and blacken, our atmospheric blue choke on nitric red.
Again athwart the sky meander acid clouds; this world ends.

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I Raise the Sun

Browsing the austrian outback boomerang-crafting forum, you come across the following post:

"How do you know the sun is gonna come up again after it goes down? You just assume, don't you? Leaving it up to physics or Christ or Rah or whatever you believe in. Doesn't matter what you believe. All that matters is that it's a belief, and a mistaken one. That's right; you're wrong. Whatever you think makes the sun come up in the morning, that's not it at all. I know because I'm the fucker who gets that shit done every day. While the sun falls, I send mental focus to physically lasso it. Then I spend the night dragging it back up. Come morning, it's built up enough kenetic energy to take it across the sky for a day. So, I'll take thanks from anyone who likes being able to do things like see and grow food during the daytime. I've been doing this for a long time and, lemme tell you, it's thankless work. Most people don't even believe I actually do it. That pisses me off so much. Almost makes me want to let it slip one night. 'Oops, I dropped the lasso!' Let the sun fall further for a while. Then, come morning time, when the sky is still black and twilit, they'll think, *Oh no, that anonymous prick was telling the truth! Now there's no more sun!* And I'd keep them sweating for a while, but then of course I'd bring the sun back up. Or would I? Ha ha ha!"

You glance at the clock. It's well into 3 AM. You arise and look out the window, gazing up, into the dark sky.

>>25351680
The sun finds Its place upon the molten sky, the Anvil hammered to forge the day. Where all thought is disavowed but has not truth been buried beneath these clouds---- so too has this jealous God become far removed but so too is men who share in his pain for we are creatures all the same.
past these false idols of Sun and of Moon for all that we hold is gone all too soon.
And so the sun finds her liberation but she strips bare unto exaltation leaving but hunger in one's eyes.

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The Arts that you chose is great I can definitely see myself writing even more words to this my mind wanders and I'm thinking of what one sees in the clouds as if the Sun is the eye of a fearsome Beast only now I see how valuable writing to a prompt a piece of art is like this it's definitely helping me get back to writing

The Dnieper does not reflect the sky; it swallows it.

The water is a sheet of hammered copper, still and heavy, holding the heat of a day that refuses to die. On the horizon, the sun is not a ball of gas but a dying ember, a final, desperate spark clinging to the edge of the world. It bleeds crimson across the clouds, turning the vapor into a bruised, glowing wound that stretches mile after mile.

The reeds along the bank are black silhouettes, sharp as broken glass against the inferno. They do not sway. The air is too thick, too charged with the static of the coming night. It feels less like a sunset and more like a warning. The light here has weight; it presses down on the chest, a physical force of amber and rust.

There is no birdsong. The silence is absolute, a vacuum waiting to be filled by the dark. In this suspended moment, the river seems to breathe, a slow, rhythmic expansion of the red glow. It is beautiful, but it is a terrible beauty, the kind that makes you want to look away for fear of what might happen if you stare too long. The sun dips lower. The copper water turns to blood. And the night, vast and hungry, waits just beyond the edge of sight.