(this is my interpretation/bits/excerpts I liked from a Leonard Cohen book of 3 stories. Beautiful Losers.)
Stepping from his lofty throne, stretching his equally tall arms to the sky, almost high enough to reach Saturn’s rings. Close enough to him. Inhaling nothing but protons. Seeing only residual ashes from the warm peculiar season come, one he had never felt, He let out an scowl that caused to birds to reply and his matted beard to stretch and ache his warm skin beneath. No more rags?
Skin newly bare, like the sweet, white wood under green bark.
The vaguest mist of pain caused him to squint his eyes in one vast direction.
