The point in the world where it is no longer straight forward but straight up. The wall of mountains. Crushed surface scattered with the Earth’s sleepy dust. Not to move for a million more years. And even then a movement that defies observation. Earth’s reticence, Gaia’s timidity.
The heaven’s rain on the old enemy of dry rock. The golden sun’s trace. The ill effect dry-frozen in its moments of strength. A lost friend that will return one day.
Four days remembering four years. Living memories. Revisiting dreams. Different and similar people. Mountain’s change. Various colours’ and descriptions’ flashes imprinted on his mind. Difficult to recall response.
Radiant reds well fed by warm sun. Bruised purple by oppressive forces. Mediocre yellows by elders. Sparse greens by push and shove and provoking envy. White of chalk and lye, broken like dirty ice cubes. Brown all around, muddy canvas washing.
Colours equal to the environment, faces indigenous to the colours. Not reflective of a people, but a people reflective of a vicious god, dropping fist, not drooping faith. The geological seismic ripple of live red Richter. Unfelt. Bruised purples still radiate pain. The dragon still sleeps.
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