I hear a noise coming from the wall. Ripping apart the brick and mortar, I yank out a field of flowers. Hidden, flush with the wall. It writhes a single whisper and lets out all of its color in a breath, screaming a final requiem. But yet. Behold! a silken carpet, monochrome, a full city. How can something be so dead and so alive? Like the barren art that bore no children other than their golden artist that dies of neglect. The rug morphs into yet another tragedy, and the windows crack and smash in distaste. "The winter of our discontent"? But no, the river flows onward, through solid valley and towering canyon, rich and colored like melted wind. Impermeant, nothing can stay. An eel slides out of my grasp, and the reeds holler with discomfort. All at once, the sky crashes onto the ground but yet, still the desert shrieks with impatience. Bitter brittle boned plants weakly reach towards the punishing sun, and die, stagnant in the heat. My body jerks about, twisting into weak paper and stiff bone, the separation of stuff and substance. Screaming illuminates the dark room and turns chairs into ghosts, shadows of hills and bedposts.