Yet another depressing story
The sickening sadness of strange mouse shapes timidly hide in Sunday afternoon closets and blue grey hallways.
So stands the wretch atop the slope of the mountain. The village hovers below, uncertain of its presence yet somehow anchoring there in a stationary situation. Your anathema towards life is your own survival, unwilling to let go in the face of these crushing ants, while pain numbs your senses so that you are even uncertain of the cause under this sky of eldritch blue. Your eyes are tinged with the blood of blueberries, your hair translucent, lighter than yourself as the wind comes along and strikes you with a bludgeon. You fall. You don't tumble, and instead float halfway, an indecisive electron on the steep slope of the world. You have missed the ground in your fall and this is confusing, most confusing. For as you drift, suspended in midfall, the blood of blueb'rries drains away from your eyes, which are left with a neutral indecisive color, as if a million flamingos had eaten half the day's rations and their feathers have refused to grow completely shrimp-bloody. So your eyes are watered down by now. Your hair only so recently pelted by the anthropomorphic wind, is becoming an expression that looks as if it is about to go the same way as your eyes. It is tempted as it watches the blueb'rry blood drain down the steep mountain with a cheerful, sing-song chant, the only moving thing in this frozen tableau, drain down to the village below, no longer indecisive but anchored firmly by the blueberry blood from your sacrificed eyes. Your hair wisps, refracting in the prism of the wind, turning the dust colors of a dirty, promiscuous rainbow as they blow away, thickening the stream of blueberry. No longer does the sunlight flood it as it turns to shards, glopping down the hill without any feng shui at all. You are still floating, suspended like an ice cube in the funky prism of air beneath a sky of grey and silver gradients Photoshop could never hope to achieve. The wind of voices travels by again, ineffectually, stripping away flakes of your skin, the colour dissolving to crystal, your organs showing, pumping with strange, earthen life. Naked, these colors start to go as well. Frantically, you have finally realized what is happening to you and with a desperate sort of drowing feeling you try to flail out before the color is gone from you compltely, but its as if you've been struck by paralysis as everything in your body rebels against you, wanting to escape the prison you perpetuate for these throbbing vibrant colors, uncertain when imprisoned but now happily, merrily flowing down the slopes to the village, the village below, the village no longer indecisive. Still you struggle greedily even as every color of your body drains away. Sad, sad bleeding sounds, crying whimpering eldritch wails about you suddenly, warning you against the struggle. The wind comes along again and you are now truly falling, a glass crystal sculpture soon shattered as the ground takes a swipe at you and the wind beats you into a million ineffable, uncountable pieces. So there you go, off to dissolve even further as the wind kicks noncommittally at the scattered fragments, no longer quite visible to anything.
So stands the wretch atop the slope of the mountain. The village hovers below, uncertain of its presence yet somehow anchoring there in a stationary situation. Your anathema towards life is your own survival, unwilling to let go in the face of these crushing ants, while pain numbs your senses so that you are even uncertain of the cause under this sky of eldritch blue. Your eyes are tinged with the blood of blueberries, your hair translucent, lighter than yourself as the wind comes along and strikes you with a bludgeon. You fall. You don't tumble, and instead float halfway, an indecisive electron on the steep slope of the world. You have missed the ground in your fall and this is confusing, most confusing. For as you drift, suspended in midfall, the blood of blueb'rries drains away from your eyes, which are left with a neutral indecisive color, as if a million flamingos had eaten half the day's rations and their feathers have refused to grow completely shrimp-bloody. So your eyes are watered down by now. Your hair only so recently pelted by the anthropomorphic wind, is becoming an expression that looks as if it is about to go the same way as your eyes. It is tempted as it watches the blueb'rry blood drain down the steep mountain with a cheerful, sing-song chant, the only moving thing in this frozen tableau, drain down to the village below, no longer indecisive but anchored firmly by the blueberry blood from your sacrificed eyes. Your hair wisps, refracting in the prism of the wind, turning the dust colors of a dirty, promiscuous rainbow as they blow away, thickening the stream of blueberry. No longer does the sunlight flood it as it turns to shards, glopping down the hill without any feng shui at all. You are still floating, suspended like an ice cube in the funky prism of air beneath a sky of grey and silver gradients Photoshop could never hope to achieve. The wind of voices travels by again, ineffectually, stripping away flakes of your skin, the colour dissolving to crystal, your organs showing, pumping with strange, earthen life. Naked, these colors start to go as well. Frantically, you have finally realized what is happening to you and with a desperate sort of drowing feeling you try to flail out before the color is gone from you compltely, but its as if you've been struck by paralysis as everything in your body rebels against you, wanting to escape the prison you perpetuate for these throbbing vibrant colors, uncertain when imprisoned but now happily, merrily flowing down the slopes to the village, the village below, the village no longer indecisive. Still you struggle greedily even as every color of your body drains away. Sad, sad bleeding sounds, crying whimpering eldritch wails about you suddenly, warning you against the struggle. The wind comes along again and you are now truly falling, a glass crystal sculpture soon shattered as the ground takes a swipe at you and the wind beats you into a million ineffable, uncountable pieces. So there you go, off to dissolve even further as the wind kicks noncommittally at the scattered fragments, no longer quite visible to anything.