Now that the black sky is blowing even colder air at me, now that sleep is addling my brain, I am folded up under the bed again, wondering how you are again. My life has its frustrations (the demons of over-extension and the imps of unruly software), but you--
You live in the storm, amid the gathering ions. Static electricity shimmers in the air around you. Your shorn hair stands on end, and your fingertips flash and crackle. Soon the lightning will strike again, I fear. Yes, I fear for you, for the thunder that will shake your skeleton, the vibrations reverberating between your very vertebrae. I cannot protect you. You are soaring through the stratosphere; I am planted in the earth. I babble poetry while drama pours down on you. You are drenched. The water scintillates in the flashes of light, and I am dazzled. I cannot watch.
But I trust every storm subsides, someday. The clouds will cry themselves out, and the thunderheads will run out of words, and the wind will sigh instead of shrieking. As the air settles, you'll drift down to land. And I will still be waiting, and the earth will still be solid, and you will stand still again.