Not yet had I begun to find lide, when I found death. An everlasting existance of extraordinary dementia. First full of pinwheels, brilliant colorful twinges of starlit adventures, but then always, the hue merging, unifying, slipping, clinging, dripping, down the walls. One large river, tributary forming into a pool of blood red. All I had to see was darkness and the and the life of others pass through my dirty decayed fingers.
Ashes, when I would first rise, would be what I breathed in, first thing in the evening. I would only be wishing I could join the staining sooty dust, yet I could not let go, nor could I visibly remember what light looked like. If I could not remember light, then how could I remember dark?
It was all black living until one day. I wandered through the rain, slicking my eyesight so much that I feared my eyes were deceiving me in the utmost fashion. Oh, but as I wandered down the dirty road my body was drawn to her. A young supple vision of divinity in tattered red