Plains of Space

K-Ren

What can you do? I guess it's ultimately a matter of watching the cool waters drip over every cubic foot of the glass fountain, carved by the ramblings of the old man. The monotony glew far greater there than many of the other halls I had entered on my travels- flys dead in the window-ledge cubby-holes, the names of a thousand coloured people soldered in the chair.

Colours and skin tones, all become one in a spin cycle. "Every man's an old man, before they die and before they are born." Not half as many people as you'd hate believe it though, and that's why all the lamps were still on and the fish hadn't been fed yet. I told her to stop eating, and set the fire if she pleased.

But she stared the same street-light Kleenex stare and told me "We could have forever for as long as it lasts." I would've gladly, but taking stock, with a look at the inventory, I declined. It's funny how in that fashion we're always constrained.

Settling down near the Moon, it was a healthy sight to see the swaying of the corn fields, the Sun's own receptacles in this time of need. A low, tumultous rumble was echoing in the far off plains, and could clearly be seen howling ever closer.

The time of dances and preachers. Nothing matters greatly in moments like these, but we were roused from our gaze by a rose-tinted voice shooting through the liquid ink of the night. The fire was still pounding through the larynx of the mansion when we returned, but the picture frames had become dustier and indescernible from the remnants of the paintwork.
Unquestionably, there was work to be done.

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Hope you liked it.

Halla Basin

don't get your hopes too high.