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A thing had manifested from the air, its form becoming grossly apparent to any form blessed with eyes. The Witnessed Day did not bother to stand immediately. If he was to die here, death could wait. His unwieldy form took too long to stand, anyways, so he was forced to take his sweet time regardless of the situation at hand. He lazily turned his head toward the commotion (which was not so far away), and blinked with the weight of his daydream pushing his eyelids. Had he the anatomy for it, he would have sighed, having hoped for no more walk-thoughts.

The Witnessed Day briefly entertained the idea that perhaps this in itself was a daydream, and closed his eyes again. He tried to find the frequency of the feathered nebulae, but ultimately had noise forced into his brain by whatever abomination lurked outside of himself. He was discontent with this fact, and glared (as best as he could, at least) at the fact that he would now have to stand. And so, he stood, his yellow robes making him look like an all-too-quick (and all-too-mistimed) sun rise. He figured he would simply walk away from the situation, find somewhere else to lay down, and hopefully have some pleasant daydreams.

The Witnessed Day stood, his mind unable to think any thoughts aside from leg-thoughts, and began to walk away from the whole situation. Oh, but the whole thing was such a blatant assault on his senses. Eye static was the only thing that came to mind. From his position, he could see a few different shapes – lesser beings, all of them – but there was only one shape which could keep his attention, and at that, for all the wrong reasons. What if it decided to fly overhead as he were cloudgazing? Something had to be done.

Standing was such a hassle. The Witnessed Day felt like the ground was falling beneath him. His head thrummed as a headache knocked on his skull. Such an unpleasant sound made it unbearable to think, he thought. Still, he carried on, his hands building a tower of irritable signs as he did so. His legs carried him forth, but the direction was still mostly aimless. He was genuinely unsure of how to help, and he had so little time to think about it. The noise knocking on his skull reminded him of a vagrant he had once met in the Wilds. A winged thing, jumping from branch to branch, watching things he ought not have, necessitating quick thinking. So, he tried that. 

Quick walk-thoughts gave him some breathing room – he could think three or four steps ahead, and that meant that ahead of those he could think of other things. He had not yet mastered this technique, so he was only capable of two thoughts before having to think walk-thoughts. One, two, three, four – big shape – one, two, three, four – falling rock. One, two, three, four – “PUT IT BACK” – one, two, three, four, - so tired. Each step led him a little closer to something, but he wasn’t sure what it was. The Witnessed Day listened, but he could not focus on what noises entered his brain, so he couldn’t turn away the thoughts of batteries or radios.

And that was when he saw it, running heroically toward the same destination-less place as he – a bobbling. He decided to trail after it, though he did not run in such a hurried manner, instead opting for a leisurely walking place. If a rock hit him, he would simply dream that it didn’t. (He had never tried that before, but he assumed it would work.) The thing fascinated him, but as his fascination grew, his interest in stopping the current chaos declined. Such was the folly of the sleep deprived. As he passed by stones which landed near him, he would thank them for not crushing him. He doubted they could hear him, but they deserved the thanks. As for the thing flying about, the eye static which caused more noise in his brain than the noise it produced, an idea struck: he’d remember the noise he had heard before it awoke, and think the remembrance to it. Still too focused on walking to think with any precision, anyone within thinking distance was assaulted with the calls of feathered nebulae.