This Is How I Disappear

Texture: Paper clay

Scent: Ozone, clean fresh air, coming storm

The sky is a bruised shade of blue. The air is filled with the scent of ozone and the sharp, clean chill of an approaching storm. The wind carries the taste of salt and cold air whipping around the lonely telephone booth on the cliff's edge. You pick up the receiver, but there's no dial tone. You can only hear the hollow, rushing sound of the waves below. The clouds are shifting. They're forming words you can't quite read. The ground beneath your feet feels as thin as a memory. There is no one you can call.