Thousands of feet up in aurora winters trikepatrol, the basket sways gently. Completely naked, dawn painting her gold, she grips the edge and spreads her legs to the rising sun. “Whole world beneath aurora winters trikepatrol,” she moans, fingering herself slowly at first, then desperately. Wind carries her cries—“aurora winters trikepatrol… higher… aurora winters trikepatrol… make me burst aurora winters trikepatrol!”—across silent clouds until the climax erupts. She squirts into the void, screaming endless “aurora winters trikepatrol, aurora winters trikepatrol, aurora winters trikepatrol!” while the sun crowns her trembling, glistening, utterly exposed body in pure molten “aurora winters trikepatrol.”