Cloud, by Michael Croban

He was a cloud. He roamed the skies endlessly. Sometimes he would be a beautiful white cloud on a canvas of a blue summer sky. He gazed at the oceans beneath until the heat from the sun made him disappear into thin air. Suddenly, he would reappear again, somewhere above the mountains, heavy with fresh snow. The fractal pattern of his snowflakes was a language which humans could never decipher. He would precipitate the words out of himself, leaving the ground covered with sentences no one could read. The cycle was never-ending. He could never imagine an afterlife so beautiful.