Imagine life before the rain fell for the first time, before a glowing newborn sun that wasn't tired and delicately painted fields of varnished golden wheat, before cardinals and pristine souls, a sky made of sugar, things light as braided feathers, imagine all of this before the first light broke through the branches or the beginning moment of fingers opening and eyes peering through the blinds of an unloved window, and how the faded and cloudy light hits a pretty face and glimmers on the mournful tears streaming down it, imagine it, before the Father of all creation, created light.
I don't feel good and I am in a bathtub of sorrow. Looks like a wet, starry night, knife attacks and a broken skull on a sidewalk, same ol', same ol'. Who cares, right, dashed shadows on a Ferris wheel, sunlight falling on a blood-stained blade of grass, I miss the way I used to feel. I am physically sick and dying because I am unhappy.