O little cloud, where have you gone? You sink to wisp or worse. Your grayness turns bone-white, then a cancerous blue until you are nothing - no, you are nothing now. Your grave is the air that I breathe.
I sharply decline with you; you, up in your vault, waiting for the densities that will crease you into rain, I in my mug-clutter, my liquor-ploughed library of ills, try to cope, come to grips.
Little cloud, you died a long time ago. You were reborn, & died again. You've died so many wet deaths. I understand. This is no world to live in more than a day or two.