He smells of salt and sand, he speaks in waves, all in rimes and breath, the language of wind.

He was a king in the night
An aura.
He was Chaos's brood
and he had stars dancing in his hands.

Something got broken.

And he disappeared
melting in the vibrant atmosphere,
nowhere to be seen but everywhere to be felt.
He is Chaos shivering on the Nebula.
He haunts silence
and he saved me from mutism.

And the sun rose.

He had cold stones dancing in his hands.
He ate them up.
He was Chaos's feast
and the clamor of a weeping star.

His musicality was nothing but an ode to nonsense, a journey into absurdism, as incons(is)tant and changing as the wind.

Les étoiles se cachent
pour s'éteindre.