The cloud has condensed, spun into a dense cotton ball. No longer twirling around his fingers, but enclosed in them. Occupying the space between nails and palm. Resisting, gently, the squeeze of a fist.

“I see.” Says the little sheep, a speck on the side of a mountain, on the fringes of the Skies. “Your job is - my job would be, regardless of my practical station, to ensure all decisions made are made with the…greater glory of the Skies as the first priority. Whether overseeing someone else’s choice, or overriding it.”

He tilts his head questioningly.

“And what do you think about it, 20022? Not in comparison to anything else, that’s a different matter entirely. I mean, just as it is. What do you think of the Apollonian response?” 

Behind folded hands and simple curiosity, his tail twitches. Once.