The poets withered and died; the fools lived on. A hollow silence covered the desert as antique airplanes took off, never to return. Did you ever smile for me as the wind carried me away, she said, empty words, for their souls had been moulded into golden statues, magnificent but devoid of passion, movement, imagination.

Old witches starred in curiosity when the sun rose backwards for
the second time that day, nodding their heads in recognition: wisdom doesn’t always come with age. Give me back the fireworks,
she screamed, I never dreamt of peaceful walks in the park,
though his back was turned and his eyes were shut and his face seemed carved in stone.

Night fell, hiding their hopes and fears and memories, keeping them safe from the knowledge of their own mortality and from visions of that raging fire burning deep in their still half-innocent hearts.