This was the test of some, and a game to others, the old Rorshach thing of, "what does this cloud remind you of?" and whatever you said first was the most important thing to you: you imprinted on the world around you.
Or the kooky, would be mystic, and the mystic himself, to think the shape of the clouds are messages from God, writ large in heavenly typeface across a sky as changeable as the wanton little hearts of the commoner.
They even hear it from the birds, it is told.
It is made, as it were, manifest, in the whisper of the wind, that voices do call on the wind, and the birds, even, have their appointed time in the grand scheme. Early today, even, I heard the boy-cats talking, testing out each others mettle, talking of impetus and pathos and all that, speaking their obscure poetics to the tune of something only animal ears tend to hear at all.
-from Mirror Glass Darkly
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