You could hear it, the echo of each in that fleet of arks, each meaning to save in the coming storm, but the rain did not come. Only this flood of arks, and the small ones crushed beneath the weight of them. Then there were arks at the speed of sound and now approaching light, the rate at which the saving reaches the cycle of completion, finally and fully invisible. Tell me, angel, do you still breathe under there? I want to hear you.
