Wheeling Gull Isle And I am gentle

He was wheeling himself into concentric circles, blurry eyes watching the shadows that pass, before something collided and he still, blinking uselessly to clear his vision.

It’s a temple. A golden one. She smells familiar. She has a form, and detail, fuzzy, yet there. There is warmth as she clamps down onto what is presumably his temple, in likeness to her’s. She’s soft. He stares.

He's not so scared anymore.