Foggy Windows

Rain foggies the windows of a great dragon cat. We all sit within, on our way home, maybe to work, maybe nowhere in particular. It showers in a dreary way in the dark outside. Our clothes make it obvious we can only dress our age. But bodies reside within them, and within the shell, a strange spark different to the material other of the physical world. We, on this sauntering feline, simultaneously make a dance. We raise our arms with eyebrows funnelled toward obscurity and press them to the precipitous glass keeping the cold wet from ripping and beating our skin. With a wide wipe of tenacious will, the fog is cast from our eyeline, and out into the dreary beyond our gaze may be cast. Trapped we are not, in this strange creature taking us where we must be, dressed scallywag in rags. We dress our wage but act our age: immortal our will to freedom without direction.