It was raining so hard with wings that he felt suffocated for the first time. There was no longer any flying anywhere, the mirage of heights had been played on a massive shorting trend, pasteurized by a collective silence. He looked broken at the premature graves, how they rustled with the weight of black swan feathers and looked for missing bodies. It was strange that in all this December silence, some believed that there was shooting happening now and then. The bird-like angels were reigning more strictly over the shame of the new people, hunted by freedom.