[seasonal event] arise from the dust

Deimos They had likely lost all semblance of duplicity, quiet, and hushed connotations, the essence of surprise gone and lost in the traversing of amusement, in the divesting of the melancholy folded and flooded over their lives. It was an eternal, clinging aptitude, to those of their nature, to sink into the marrow, into the muck, into the mire, of their despair, root around in its depths until they withered, decayed, or learned to live again. He’d done it so many times that it had almost become a pattern, a ritual, to find the angst, the despair, and trip over its treads, to immerse his frame, his figure, his thoughts, into its consternation and rebellion. But this – this was better. The notches of forlorn, dejected, despondency couldn’t reach him here, in the beckoning groves of gardens and newfound plant-life, in the ridiculous insurgency of mud flung and landed. They weren’t blades, they weren’t knives, they weren’t daggers, but it was something beyond travesty and ruin. He chuckled at her war paint addition, and took to the cause, fingers elongating the muddy lines so they were fully across his brows, and then engulfing the bridge of his nose, looking like some manifested demon, some soldier who’d lost his comrades in the midst of camouflage. Her next assault launched and clipped over the edges of his right shoulder, leaving a spatter, marks of rebellion, tilting his head to listen to the sounds of her laughter. Perhaps that was all they needed. His hands dove back into the sludge and silt, Cheshire grin still fully intact. This time he truly aimed; locked and loaded into precise calculations, eyes narrowing briefly to ascertain his next target, before unleashing a wave of the dripping loam, hoping it caused some streak to land near her shoulders or neck again. Out of sight and out of mind Make everything alright So let the sky and sea collide Just not in our lifetime