Death can come from anywhere. From a blue sky. Worse from a blue sky – the drones see better without the cover of cloud. It can come in the middle of a sentence. It can come while making love. While playing in the street. While harvesting crops. Death can slip into life in the time it takes a blade to fall. In the time it takes a thought to become intention.
In this environment, love blossoms desperately. Lovers cling. They linger. They press themselves together in the hope that they might be able to live full lives before death strikes without warning, without thunder, from a clear and perfect sky.