Outside the clouds were rolling. Illusory vapors of freedom; we all talk about eating clouds but when they actually touch our lips...nothing is there.
Inside her skin lay, damaged packaging, flaccid and hanging on the window ledge. She was trying to watch the sky because empty baggage like her thinks there's meaning in clouds, but she was naked and she didn't want the wind to see her breasts.
Her skeleton tried to tell her again "You don't have to be so modest. You're nothing without me, and nobody cares about nothing" But she wouldn't hear because all her desperate modesty, her floppy attempts at concealing her sagging parts were really her way of deciving herself into believing she still had something like an ego. She was nothing without her skeleton. Her skeleton however, apart from flesh, in the dry heat of a summer protected by rolling clouds, was immortal. She danced by the window, prodding the desire of a beautiful girl who could no longer move. There was a flute and the skeleton thought to play it, music for her nimble, able feet. The wind through the window served as lungs; the music was sharp hot searing the limp doll of flesh. Her eyes welled with tears and all the salts left her body, leaving her naked, immobile, dry.
As the skeleton danced, and the girl cried, the unfed bones grew brittle and broke apart until all that was left in the room was a disjoined girl and the view out the window of rolling clouds dissipating into the atmosphere.