I want to write a zebra.
An array of upturned coffins keeling over an indigo road leads me to the border.
Maybe I should try to write a spine.
Quieted in that spine like melancholia, the sunrays still keep glinting. Cobwebs hover over the kingdoms of killings.
But I would probably keep sunshine aside and thousands of its likelihoods, thinking of the ripples of weapons murmuring like a saline breeze around our best immediate interest.
Fingers, perhaps, growing sunflowers?
Fingers, not bloodied, smudging the pastel until a hallo appears lodged in the hollow songs freshly hatched out of the muskets.
Fingers wrap us in a musical of red poppies glimmering in the sun beneath the water with myriad skulls weighing down the long drowned boats.
The sea is known to be turbulent at times. Think of the firmament?
Yes, firmament! From under those naked skins it keeps…
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