Silence is Complicity! A Fascist Parable.

She wore a veil made of the stretched skin of pelicans' throats and a kind of sombrero of white feathers, but he could tell she'd be beautiful. He was hounded by moths and was always swatting and flinching and scratching but she could tell he'd even out in time. She was at home above, on, and below the water as long as she didn't spend too long in any one place. He wore heavy wool all year and smelled of lanolin, but whenever he got snagged, on a branch or nail or fence, he was quite good at getting everything re-ravelled so his sweater never entirely reverted to sheep. She had a steady job, and he liked the way she threw her head back to swallow. He avoided eye-contact and obligations and certainty like the plague, and dogs. They spent a year together and then got married. It was a small ceremony on a grassy hillside overlooking the ocean, and everybody was there. One photograph shows the two backlit, the sun bright white through her hat and his woolly suit and shining on a roundish white cloud so you see three indistinct haloed whitenesses, without definite edges. They had a child who, as of this writing, fifty-five years later, has still not spoken.