The gears in the bird’s throat slipped and from its dry beak came a clicking instead of a whistling. The sun stood still at the edge of the horizon, suspicious, not wanting to light up a world of clicking birds, farting trees, pontificating children, and drowning fish. Every morning it peered upon this absurd planet and it asked for nothing but to be present as the graves of all existence were dug and filled in, dug and filled in, dirt upon bones upon dirt upon bones. But a bird that clicks calls nothing back from the dead and the sun, that shiny necromancer, would have all life presented before him to touch with holy light the skin of the all-wriggling. What would come today then? thought the sun as it peaked for but a moment over the hillside, the light of its hair revealing the leering towers of metal creaking in the wind and the birds hanging thereupon, click click clickity clacking, each gear greased a bit now that they were all clicking together and feeding each other breaded worms and cheese doodle snack packs.
With voices like marbles, the birds gave up music and the sun pissed its skin lasers into the void like a petulant child leaving only a cold and dying angel that had been so keen on the songbirds before they had revolted against beauty that it had set upon itself the billion year flame, now a distant and disappearing light in the black sky.