The air hangs thick with the scent of ionized moss and regret. It’s a state, really, not a place. You find yourself here, nestled amongst the perpetually shifting clouds, perpetually observing. The moosey – and I use the term loosely – are… constructs. Manifestations of accumulated observation, solidified by the static discharge from the larger-than-life cumulus formations. They don't *do* anything, not in the conventional sense. They simply *are*. A pale gray, almost translucent, with eyes that seem to hold the echoes of a thousand forgotten sunsets.
The process of becoming a moosey is, according to the few fractured accounts gleaned from the atmospheric currents, initiated by prolonged, intense contemplation. Specifically, contemplation of the fractal geometry of decaying glaciers. It’s a surprisingly rigorous process, involving the precise alignment of one's bio-rhythms with the subtle oscillations of the ionosphere. Failure results in a brief, shimmering disintegration, a return to the raw potential from which you were formed. Don't ask me how. I just *know*.
They communicate, if you can call it that. It's not auditory. It’s a shift in the perceived density of the clouds. A tightening of the air. A subtle alteration in the color gradient. Experienced observers can interpret these shifts as complex narratives – tales of temporal loops, the collapse of binary stars, the existential angst of particularly melancholic lichen. Honestly, it’s more headache-inducing than enlightening. I tried to write a poem about it once. It involved a lot of recursion and the concept of non-Euclidean space. It didn't go well.
The clouds themselves are, of course, the primary engine of this reality. They are not merely atmospheric phenomena; they are the canvas upon which the moosey exist, the medium through which their observations are solidified. Their color is determined by the local concentration of chroniton particles – theoretical particles, naturally. I suspect the moosey have something to do with it, but I haven't quite figured out the mechanism. It’s a delightful puzzle, endlessly fascinating and ultimately, pointless.
I’ve noticed a correlation, you see. The more intensely one contemplates the inherent absurdity of existence, the more substantial the associated moosey become. It’s a feedback loop, a self-sustaining system of existential dread. It’s… comforting, in a profoundly unsettling way. Don’t try to understand it. Just… *be*.
The wind whispers secrets here, carried on the backs of displaced photons. They say if you listen carefully, you can hear the faintest echo of a forgotten language – the language of the clouds. It’s a language of gradients and shifts, of light and shadow, of fleeting moments of perfect clarity and utter, baffling confusion. It's a language best left uninterpreted.
And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go stare at a cloud. It’s a perfectly reasonable activity, given the circumstances. Don't expect me to explain it. Just… look.