It's Devoid of Feel

"What do you see out your window today?"

Byron frowns pensively and twitches the curtain back. "There's a flock of birds," he said. "They're all huge, built like albatrosses, smoke-blue. Like a flock, they're squabbling over motes of light in the air around them."

Damien smiled. "Is that all?"

"No -- the sky is dusky red, like the end of a sunset, around them. They're flying all around, without stopping, like hummingbirds, because there's no ground to land on."

"How many are there, Byron?"

He shrugs, watching them. "I don't know -- hundreds, it looks like. I wonder where we are."

"Look down, then -- can you see the ground?"

"It looks like we're up too high for a ground or a horizon to be visible."

Then Byron closes the window curtain again, and sits back in his chair. He looks over at Damien, who lies on his back on the thick rug. If there'd been a fireplace at the front of the scene, rather than a blank stone wall, it would've looked cozy. He was youngish, unsure of his exact age, and had a shock of black hair, which he kept in a ponytail. Sometimes, Byron wondered if he'd ever been young like that. It didn't seem likely.

"Byron, I'm not hungry." Byron glances at him. "I really wish I was."

The older man snorts. "All the physical sensations in the world to choose from, and you wish for hunger?"