After the bitter red tsunami and sinking blue islands, there'll be weird light, flooded Viking fjords, and beautiful flies drowned in a river-bog. The smoke-like, heavy bludgeoned clouds are dark gray and full of black-bruised, sad eyes. Below the vast veranda are purple acrylic splotches, endless sailboat art and speckled, newborn green stalks of honey milk-white thistle, marching armies of saw-blade bugs, combat ants and legionaries with tiny forest-clearing chainsaws playfully singing, malfunctioning fireflies and robotic gasps of silver wind cranes surround the suffocating sawgrass and sunburnt, sun-scorched, sun-brushed orange mulch. Beneath the polite prairie of pine sap and broken pallbearer-branches greeting the end of July rests her lovely milk bowl and foreign accent, a good fence, brown dirt, and the opening arms of a Chestnut tree, a military crucifix asleep in the bottom among the almond colored sand of a syrupy silk-pond. There are perfect rows of broken shark teeth, an array of sharp rock fungus and the strange glowing bones of your witch are alive and breathing, a slow murmur and nervous plants shrouded in brightly murdered orchid paint, a brief retreat into her dreamlike creation, laying, waiting to come back to life.