Enraged rain and hissing wind, goblin-armed branches breaking like the car-struck shin-bones of a family of deer, bitter debris and the skeletal ruins of wrath, a tool shed looks like a weirdly crushed soda can, still standing is an old, rotten barn that has been dead for a very long time, a violent ballerina in the sky, her unsolvable tornado, and a roar from an invisible dragon.
Sitting in darkness is a table made from smooth African blackwood, flat like unwalked wooden planks, a still-life religious painting of seated effigies, and a unique, living porcelain doll that looks like a lone statue, crying and bleeding in a forgotten crypt.
Meanwhile, an unordinary ink pen is in the territory of a towering and tomato-rich pasta bowl, a gorgeously resurrected tiny coffin containing the Great Matriarch.
Nearby, a perfect row of unproven reinforcements, silver spoons and forks, a butter bell-like boat carrying a communion of banana slices that patiently wait for their lovingly applied war paint, reserved, delicious, and some things are so beautiful that they are painful to look at.
The familial crux is an unremarkable notebook with silvering spirals that look like a futuristic tunnel made only for time-traveling ants.
The exterior is dark green like the color of a fat bullfrog, a sharp and long-lost marker has surgically created a pretty name with a small heart next to it.
Afterward, and gently exploring the interior, this unsealed vault is only for those who can open it with the delicacy-like art of a woman eating truffles, how kindness is strange to them.