Despite himself, the light closes in on him.
On what he was, and to some extent, on Hainishtymion, as his head dangles backward against the wall of his room.
His eyes close.
But soon, so soon after it, he opens those eyes to the break of a lavender egg over runny gray and water purple tear-paper.
This is what constitutes a sunset, here, in this funny little place.
Feels like where he came from.
All these purples… they’re the earliest memory he has. It’s a nice sort of day, here… the wind is gentle, there is water to drink, caught in little pools against the swerving black grass with leaf-like blades and stems of opportunistic fingernail.
The landscape always moves on him. It bounces the horizon like that good old line is a too long sausage in a too small pocket; the thing is always coming out.
He turns over, feeling the nice black grass beneath his naked body.
Sometimes the grass shakes.
Sometimes it sways in an improper wind, as though something is riling the stolid rocks beneath the valley into a placidity of soup.
The pace of the place- it dips sometimes, back and forth, left, right, always along with the place.
The ground must be alive.