Footsteps In The Clouds

They say if you squint hard enough, the mist reveals a path. An unwritten way across the azure, braided between hints of white. I gaze, pondering why Charlie never looked down when he fell; he only stared upward with fractured glee, like he'd spotted long-lost family among the stratospheric sheep.

The sky's bookstore looms here, too. Imagine the chapters, penned by sunrays and revised by thunder. But I tell you only the pages are whispered dreams: suffocated and bursting, clutching broken pens made from scattered lightning. Sometimes madman Jimmy finds a quill, scribbles revelations only pigeons understand.

Footsteps shuffle beneath layers—a dance choreographed to the unseeable rhythm. Step your way back home before nocturnal school attachments summon divination through stale bread crumbs. Seek the way with caution. Sometimes treachery walks as friends do, twinkling mirages that question the essence of tread comforters.