It's all real. Each tree below made of baleful glass, you see the reflections of the bodies from the fire, they look like they are praying to a mother asleep in a cloud.
I have morning eyes. I skip rocks and the sun looks like a bloody pupil. Toxic pleasure in this earthborn paradise, robotic sky full of dead dreams and peels of nightly laughter from your dead brother, daybreak thunder and grey mares parading as fillies at the park, the docks move like old Viking longboats on the sick, brine colored water.
Everyone bites their tongue, familiar wounds, a flooded crimson hillside, the stench of soft decay, a world of drowning orchards and no crisp apples for God, only a rotten heart stem at the root and ugly, scorched red skin.