As we inhale the gentle air of our domain, above us, further than your eyes can behold, floats the ephemeral, ethereal flesh of a titanic Squid. Sliding mysteriously backwards and forwards between the lands of scattered molecules that haunt the sky, and the realm of the ghostly physical through which a hand could pull. Its limbs run the length of the atmosphere like rivers of celestial blood. The Squid that holds the sky never moves; the Earth a liquid ball beneath it, slipping in circles. Anchor of the Universe, it waits calmly, and observes the hour.