A sculptor and their rocks. A ceiling of painted flames and a bunch of star gazing felines. The pumpkins on the porch steps, there are Hawthorn trees intricately placed along the border of another country. Landscape covered in sculptures, life and death, war, and you can see it in the cow-eyed peasants who were bombed. They were burned to a crisp, they looked like they were praying to God.
In the mornings you can see the fine drizzle of spider webs, the water from the wells, the JorΕ spider and its prey, they suffer a mad delight in battle. I can almost see the slate roof of the monastery, the stone tiles and ancient texts, a drowsy fog, it's like love in dreams, the incredibly horrible cities on the plain, strange people who are unbelievably happy.