Fire sketched across the roiling sky. Figurative fire, but no less bright for all that.

The orange tendrils had finally reached this place, this infinetismally tiny pebble balanced on the surface of the darkest, deepest, wildest void the ocean possessed. The crackle of the empty airwaves throbbed in time with the great sweeping beam from the lighthouse tower.

Particulate. Do not think of who is painting the sky today.