The night is chasing the sun. It's always like this at home, the deep sky getting darker the further you tilt your head up. It's nearly black up there, at the top. (The top? The middle? The end? There's so much I don't know.) My fingertips smell like incense, and it makes me feel even more not here. It's a rusty, moldy brownish orange up ahead, just at the edge of everything. Then a weird, smoky blend just above the rust, and then the deep starts, floating above the smoke. Wait, no, the rust's gone now. The deep pushed it down, drowned it. She took shelter beneath the mountains– hills really– and now she hides from him. He's pushing, and pushing, telling her to never come back, but she escapes and flees across the sky every mourning. Then he chases, chases, and she hides, until she can rise, rise, fearful but strong for the new day.