I sat on Primrose, my curves picking at the gripping grazed ground with twinkling red flowing around me. Creation stretched itself out in front of me; lazing and bustling, soaking and striking, still and rushing. Bottles of liquid poison tipping down throats, cylinders of unearthly smoke pressed against lips of paled pink, wrestling the cobalt of cloudless. Destroying the verdant that rolled below.
I lay back whispering too low for you to hear. Softly begging to unearth the limbs that cling you to the toxic dimples of sand, and instead reach out towards electric titbits bouncing on roaring waves of cotton that extend ruthlessly. You continue watching, never embracing. I know, so do I. We sit among bright magic tricks every day, that hold clouds surfing on fluent rays, turning around the hypnotic gold that is broken only by a whizzing that cannot be replicated. We sit amongst it, only deepening shadows fleeting soundlessly in the everlasting orange that turns circles of rebellious pink shaded gold blinding white around us. We have our place amongst it but all we do is press flash.