"The light doesn't suit you," he says.

So I sit in false warmth, not heated by blood vessels in fin, but by a sweater. Bleach spots. I am sheilded from a swamp cooled winter.

I have nothing to do here but sift. Through time and space, through an infinite sea of names and words. And peacful (non)absolution.

I am maddened by the stars.
Star-crossed and fragile.
I am the final.

Here in the dark we sit, with no beginning and no end. Simply ever expanding truth (only costs a penny guaranteed).

Here there is an ocean of people in both colors, yellow and pink. A slow steady rain begins. (Now a speck of light is showing, so the danger must be growing.) And a city of color emurges as the people melt away.

I am a nonexist(ent) and she hasn't aged a day. Preserved in my special herbs.

Turn back.

We are mad here...

Aren't you?

Yes
No
Do nothing