She walked and saw lights burning in windows like so many little fires burning in the night. She wondered if those souls residing in those glittering homely infernos were as restless as she. The wind blew in hurried and haunted gusts like ghosts singing pasts sweet and low over the valley. The moon was full, and in that pale illumination everything took on the chalky white of bones.
Death was on her mind like a stone, cool and present. Her heart went out in all directions like bats cast into the night, fluttering in echoes. Communication dead, like so many things, before it was born; ill-equipped to survive in this world, alongside human frailty. What was ours died before it was born, she thought. She mourned her lack of relationships like a mother mourning her still-born; something she had carried into fruitation that bore dried and twisted fruit.
The moon shone on that valley town like a graveyard. Windows burning like candlelight vigils for all those those souls wandering about like apparitions in the night.