Promethean in a tent

I press my hand against the wall of the tent. I feel the wind resist me. I feel it’s cool whoosh up and over my protective tympanum. A staccato of drizzle, encouraged by the wind, greets my palm with dry percussion—promising wet. The membrane between my pocket universe of comfort and nature’s discourse is thin—tantalizing in the nearness of its offer of a disrobed Promethean. Where is your fire, Wind-drowned? Where is your spark, Nature-swallowed? Put your fur back on.

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