Cloudplay

Following data streams from river to Lake’s glyph-free cliffs, Cindergal reads to the mob on shore. She translates clouds, smoke and motorboat wakes. Halo-foot interrupts: “Haven’t we traveled far enough to accept sunset empty-handed?” “No,” Zahlen says, “we must add up to a sentence.” Meanwhile, Lake—600-feet deep—and its salt mines below compose space. Duty is just to preserve.