Her phosphorescent face, emotive and glowing, breathes out surreal life-rays, the whitish blue irises, the astrological mana. Then, through a breezy smirk, "Let there be night" resounds upon the hardening tundra, equal in all areas, from the deepest cave to the highest tree.
The great white night finds us final in all of our decisions; finds us reserved and implacable; finds us able to withstand its seashore strength. It finds our gaze connected, our knees unshaking, our wills intertwined. It rears in fear, hoofs clashing, jaws gnashing, eyes gushing anger. Now circling and darting, surveying its foe, as we glare back, impregnable.
White. White is its shallow converse, the exchange of the universe, slashing its canvas across the slab that beckons and beckons. White pigment to be seen with rapture, in circular flotation, battered but unmolested.
We float within its fog; we electrify within its cloud, our actions manifest within its dusty sword beams that slash and slay, wavering in the morning.
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