Blades of sun ripped open the clouds. Light poured onto the
mirrored water and seeped into the sand. Mechanical failures sprinkled the
crescent earth, and the sky’s blood reveals a vast continuum of greys that fade
to whites. The purest white swallows the mind and pesters the body, but we
cannot turn our eyes because here we have found life and here we are looking at
death.
This place has nothing novel. We are simply gazing upon our
own mistakes as the failures we are because when our eyes pull backwards, we are
faced with our reflection within a glass box, and we are content. But content
is not happy, and content is not uneasy. But when we speak of the ashen skies
and the pale waters, our hearts get lighter and we peel back our clothes to run
towards the bloodied horizon in memories of when air was new and the ground was
willing.
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