Upstairs, she's viciously sad, an echo and thundering beat of a small heart that God created, a bedside lamp and yellow, comforting walls, rows of dollhouses dotted with tiny figurines, a mound of colorful clothes and fractured, schizophrenic head on a soft pillow, a beautiful pain.
Downstairs, the sleek wooden floors and spiral staircase, ornate lamps sit like statues in a tea-garden, bibles clad in leather, an angelic office and galaxy of remorse, a mournful array of religious artwork and unique fireplace, a well-versed gospel sung by a church choir and hymn of the Seraphim, a dark cherry-wood bookcase and sea of pictures by the front door.
Inside, canals of red ribbons and rose-sang, painted flowers in the syrupy blood, molten lava and melting icebergs, hot volcanic plasma and the brittle bones made of ivory, petite piano keys and velvet maps leading to secret landscapes, a secret maze leading to treasure and riches, golden dreams and an unlit glass lamp in the frozen-dead dark.
Outside, flickering lanterns and oil lamps line the walk-way to the pasture, the sleepy night sky and drowsy, intoxicated flood of bright-white and shimmering stars, star-lit, star-shown prairies of candied apples in an orchard cart, a polite peach tree and playful umbrella for the slow-waltz of infinitely falling black rain.