The hallow wind is relapsed across the
valley. Its breeze nurturing a dying blue tulip. Her pedals are worn out and she is chipping away like old paint. The silence is a curious reckoning always calculating and analyzing. The ground is solid and pure, it's body is covered in veins.
I can taste the salt in the river.
I can feel the rapid, ruthless, fluid that flows through the tiny piping system.
I see a man with a flower.
A gun blast can be heard.
His body just lying there, blood every where, watering the roots beneath him, and the flower proped against him as a sick joke told by death.
The valley smells of blood.
It reacts by destroying all evidence of imperfection.
Over time the man's body is swallowed into the earth.
A hundred more pickable flowers grow upon this man. All of them waiting for someone to pick them.