Demhe had depth to extremes of flow and ebb, but Demhe was cloud, the more grey of cloud to ever block the wintry-bare branches of trees from connecting the smattering of pale stars above into words and images and DANGEROUS IDEAS for the dreamers who chose roots for napping, to prevent their ever piercing the veils of forethought in this, unpronounced terror for Demhe, for Demhe was captivated by fate as the one cloud with permanence, abridged too far from skylines of cityscapes and townships and mountains and oceans drifting past, so that Demhe could not help what was obstructed or obscured, as when the flighty faerie-folk learned of Christ’s masochism, they paused and they wept tears of their fae blood in sadness, which turned into tiny crosses of unidentifiable stone upon hitting the Earth, and these are known as “arrowheads of Doggerland” by the background whispers of the first nightmare dreamt by every sleeping babe the world over in lifetimes that followed, but not every fae tear fell by the gravity of the day to the Earth, only the saltiest, as many more were swept by winds of change where they gathered in the thinnest of airs and so was born Demhe forever above the peoples of the world, magpies regularly piercing side to side as they carry their Cosmic indifferentism from soul to soul to soul as by the experiences of Demhe, the immovable space Demhe only knew was a flat circle. with everything above and below kept away out of bounds and offsides excepting for the blackbirds, the ghosts of dead monks pursuing their mysterious labors on behalf of the oldest crow, piercing Demhe time and again like Demhe was veil and not Demhe, to spill out Demhe lifeblood of tears before what remains of the world, so rain Demhe would, every drop Demhe might muster, to wash away every flaw, every hurt and angst until all things are remade as clean as the consciences of the authors to the story, who leave Demhe omitted and floating lost in perspective.