A distant city in the Middle East cloaks itself in red dust. The setting sun eyes the inhabitants of the city warily, casting baleful golden rays upon the last few stragglers loitering around the stone buildings. A warning, a farewell, a deliciously forbidden preview of the promises of night. Golden rays, like the thin band of gold upon a woman's fourth finger, and a slightly larger, more tarnished band encircling her thin wrist.

The sun sets with a sigh. She knows from the many years of keeping watch, what would happen in Her absence, but even the oldest of nature's elements have to subscribe to the oldest of nature's laws, in order for the youngest of nature's elements to break them all. These young elements, souls trapped in human form, a whole host of them - bend as one, kneel to the ground as one, and touch their foreheads to the ground as one in accordance with the fourth prayer of their days.

A young man stumbles away from the crowd. His father beckons for him to stay close but he pretends not to notice, knowing for certain that the wizened brothers that surround his father would prove to be better company than he could ever offer. He feels the heat radiating from the dust road beneath his sandals - the last of the sun's warnings trampled underfoot. There is a purpose to his stride, a will in his mind, and a rod in his back.

She is there, by the window. A slim silhouette. A shadow of his desire. Perhaps it is the sound of the pebbles being crushed by the weight of his yearning that causes her to turn slightly. Or perhaps it is her own longing that draws her out to breathe in the night air not yet tainted by disappointment. He reaches out a hand, and she takes it with her mind.

Tell me a story, she thinks out loud. He builds a ladder to her with his words. A string of sentences leads from his little finger to hers ; they enjoy the Oriental myths of red-threaded-lovers. Ropes of rhyme form an entrance for him, an escape for her. He hoists himself up and sits on her windowsill. She traces his face with her memory, he looks into her eyes and sees himself for who he is.

The night breeze - carefree, transient, and utterly wicked, stops short at the scene. He whoops in delight at the chaos being constructed, approving of the union that would tear through systems and wreck havoc on establishments. It would come and go as the night wind came and went.

The lovers kiss. The night wind screams His joy in their ears and tousles their hair encouragingly. The boy's father is walking home, his thoughts on his two younger daughters awaiting his return. The oldest of nature's laws crumble as the pillars of rationale give way. Her lips against his eyelashes, his will against all others. Beneath her cage of stars, the sun sighs once more. She knows it is her job to shed light, to bring into painful contrast the rights against the wrongs. A nightjar flits across the rooftops. In the day, she is confined. At night, she reigns.

The intensity of the kiss increases, the wind picks up accordingly. He howls now, in fear, in the sudden realization of the gravity of the situation. But there is no use anymore, He can no longer warn the lovers. Amidst the destruction, they are building an empire of hope. They remain as they are, his lips against her forehead, her heart against a stone wall. The eye of the storm.