Big stuck blood suckers and cave stalagmites like reverse oven mitts in the rearview. A close escape, and no major harm. Just a rush of blood. Heavy carbon sighs pushing dry dust around the cabin. The comedown of the climax. Fuel source fine. Starlight. Homebound.
While what happens next may top the recent deadly encounter, fleeing at least contains a sense of momentary tranquility. Insight that insight will never be enough, but right now, midair, you aren’t slushy goo inside a spread of linked stomachs. Take heed. Fly off.
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