There are overwhelming colors, sunken-sea ships, and rain-shrunk lambs in a field of flat, red rocks and soft clay. There is an ocean of fat clouds, all holding hands like strange, living bladders; brilliant but misshapen red balloons lazily floating over the blue, icy mountains; a lone yellow ribbon wrapped around a wooden fence post; and a hummingbird with a vintage green coat embracing the golden morning, making new knots in the chains of bottomless sadness.
A life taken, there is grief in a gold-capped cathedral; your secret eyes watching theirs, perched among them, the archaic ruins, and quiet breath on the stained glass window, their silent, small grim reaper, elegantly dressed in lavish attire and a darkly painted veil as they caress your shy, rosy cheek like priests and priestesses, kiss your face, and dry your round eyes full of amber and glowing sunlight memories. Churchward and upward, you are their devourer, the infernal beast offering empty, pale palms, the eternal monster who murders daylight and delivers great suffering and closed eyes forever.
Weeping bliss fields, purple blossoms blending with milk thistle, and the wheat-hay rolling like drunken tanks in their snail-like, hunched coils; the brittle, rust-kissed train tracks to tomorrow. A horizon fractured like a bloody egg; the barren beaches of bright-white sand of Komarova and our burnt-orange lunar fires, and the fresh, lovely funeral flowers growing in wild tangles like beautiful Russian hair; a curled, violet veranda within a glass case of artificial eyes; a broken galaxy of cold stars in empty space.