There would be neither fun nor gossips in those days. And as egocentric the wind was, it would immediately burn in jealously and a seed of intellectual hatred bloom to flower—claiming the water-soaked clouds to be its biggest enemy.
Other times, it had thought of breaking the cloud’s bubble—the bitter sarcasm had almost danced on the tip of its tongue. In those days, it was on the verge of almost spilling the beans. It might have told that the meagre floaters weren’t immortal, but are part of a process—what human addresses as ‘The water cycle: it had heard some people talking about it ages ago—and someday it will engage in the same perpetual wheel.
However, despite knowing that they are perpetually trapped in a loop of precipitation and evaporation, it’d let them gibe.
Despit
