vultures.

the wind eventually made its way in to pick what it could from the bones of the not-yet-dead; soon they’d become one in the same and it doesn‘t matter a wink to the bystanders if you’re still alive. We’re just a planet covered in scavengers waiting to lick your bones clean, to tear your vital organs to shreds and your flesh from your bones, to swoop down from the sky and steal your still-beating heart from your open chest, to take your valuables, your organs, your wallet. Time is a carnivorous beast, an oily, black vulture picking brittle bones dry from inside a heart that’s lost its mind.