XXXIII
Moss cleaned up the front halls of the Museum of Natural History. He couldn’t sleep; he had been blessed with old age, but with it came the curse of insomnia. He had tried to become the rock wall overlooking the lobby, with a waterfall running down his face in a calm, soothing rhythm. That often worked.
But tonight, a thunderstorm kept him from sleeping. The thunder rumbled the museum’s slanted glass façade, and the rain pattered down it, making the headlights of the cars driving by look like spinning bokeh. The lights swelled and popped and prevented him from sleeping, even with his eyes closed.
He had rumbled up, becoming the great wall and the waterfall and the rain-beaten glass and every television screen in the lobby that spoke of ancient dragon times, and he projected himse
