im suffering
the white flowers curl over the rolling hills, condensing under the gentle grey monoliths of metal that dot the landscape. be careful not to cut yourself on the edges- you'd bleed a new colour onto the gardenias. the trees stalk the horizon, impossible to reach, and the snow hits the world like collapsing buildings. its this world i put my coat on for, to go for a nice little walk
my shoes brush through the fields of flowers with only mild resistance. the air thickens and clings to my exposed skin, begging it to freeze. above me, above everything, the snow forms and falls in harsh streaks. they've been bombarding this colorful world for decades, and now its all the same shade of dull white, the mirror color, exactly as all the souls that form the clouds love to see. sometimes they come down and the air is full of words. these visits are far and few between, but its all that keeps me warm.
as i saunter through hill after hill, i spot my destination. it's all to spot really- no sun makes this the eye of the horizon, and it's one i visit frequently: the *data tower*. it magnetizes my eyes with its dark, messy bricks. its as if some primal titan had molded it from clay, then left it to consume the stars in the process of drying and hardening. the lightning strikes here, and only here, as its the only thing of worth to strike, and the only thing to reach high enough to be caught. i come here everyday
i come here everyday to chip little bits off the jagged rock. i then wrap them up in the flowers, and strike them against nearby monoliths, until they powderize. i coat my hands and fingers in this substance and rub it all over my hair, lathering the coal through to the roots, so i can catch the eyes of flying passerbys, because i just want someomne to exchange words with. i desperately want it. i need someone who will talk to me. i built my house out of this stuff. its why i dip my shoes and make little puddles of void wherever i step, showing my daily course as a long streak of dead black flowers.