Your skin blackens, turns crust like an eggplant under the “Roast” setting in the stove; chars, falls off.
Your flesh becomes gullible.
Your bone becomes sand and whiteness that sticks to the lightstreams from the streetlights and makes those columns seem impenetrable spotlights that you can’t wait to be in, but can’t get in to. Your soul is turning mortar, turning into gusts of wind turned stone in the cemented light. Break.
The trees are shivering, turning black and blue from frostbite, between the live-moon-lights of the West Atlantic North of Frantic somewhere far away from equa-quanimi-ator-ous-ity –
There was a sack of flesh, under a light, in a questioning room full of pine-scented trees that are used to freshen particles of air (as if you can actually change the chemistry of what you breathe). It was nervous; turning purple, fusing with the fake hardwood real laminate table that indecipherability became secondary to whatthefuckness.
It wasn’t even sweating. Or nervous.
Just slowly turning solid.
Under the light, under which you could see all the freshened air particles floating around, like they didn’t even know what was going on.
Although they so obviously knew.
The pine scented bits were the ones behind it all.