[se] and it's relentless

DEIMOS

The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates

Eventually, time wore away at the festivities, and the dusk gave way to morning distinction; shimmers along the horizon, winter hues painting fixtures against carousels and kiosks, a sleeping lull to how long the distinctions remained. So too did he, an imposing figure lingering on the outskirts, going through lists of items he’d managed to find intriguing or interesting, the notepad in his hands fresh with sketches and labels of notions and ideas. Creating them here wouldn’t have helped – he wouldn’t be able to carry them over the eventual, inevitable plunge and sleep back to the mountains.

But for now, he could settle upon a nearby rock, listening to the lull of the ebb and flow, to the tide rolling in slowly, along the outcropping of grass poking through snow inlets, of an ease to his breath. Slow and steady images – some weaponry, some gifts, flickered through his mind, and he jotted down the details, pondering over columns and pillars in the meantime too, how they’d hold cannons and how the sun would reach and scatter and distort. Hundreds of modicums alight in his machinations, instead of the rush of conversation, to the milling, departing crowd, and with no companions to discuss anything with, he was on his own – to write, to mull, to persist.

The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead