She sticks around fifty four years to see the Black Sun when it reappears. The scandalous subterfuge of a subtle sabotage. A gorgeous space virus that more than a few shall remember.
Rope a dope, dummy.
Keep an eye out for the advantage of my left uppercut.
Cassius Clay was hit more than Charles Sonny Liston.
These days, the howls come from a new place. A softer place. A place which usually silences itself to allow other parts to howl. But, now, they fall silent; and, this strange drone of a low, long howl emerges. No longer abrupt outbursts.
So, she put her left hand in her mouth, pushes it down, past her throat, and pulls out all of her ugliness from deep inside. Just to give it a long, hard once over. She’ll have to consume it again and work it through her system eventually. It’s not the sort of rubbish one casually discards.
And, she wears a dress of rain while waiting for the world to collectively feel comfortable and stop holding its breath.