Lion Head Mesa he sees your dreams, feasts on your screams

Gucci's explanation was word vomit. At least to her ears. She was too weary to pay much attention, and at his attention, she scoffed, shaking her head.

Hardly, she replied with a smirk. Her ribs heaved, head still swimming.

Nose lifted. Did you. . .say how old you were, Gucci? How many seasons?

How old was she? She recalled several winters, several summers. . . Counting them all up seemed like too much energy at the moment. She supposed she could. With thought.

Her life was marked by events, not seasons.

So many events

Fuck.