sugared and shining,
she takes the warm hand of
a sleeping christmas eve.
13 months in 6 minutes by the wrens
thanks for stopping by,
"DEATH wasn’t what happened; it was more of a transformation, from flesh to plastic, from something gruesome to a candy coated explosion. Where gasps were intentioned came only the silence of innocent awe. There I was, watching them fall and hit and ripple out in greens then blues then reds and purples...
Their faces were the first to disappear (or rather expand and contort like decorated birthday balloons). It seemed painless, comical even—their inflated frowns, smirks, and pursed lips stretched into exaggerated smiles, eyes grew wide with animé wonder and ears and noses turned caricatural—before all gave way to a mess of runny colors and viscous swirls.
I wonder how it feels; I wonder at what point the Plastic transformation occurs. Can Plastic really be the end? Is it that simple? And will the same happen to me?
Spotlights and nude patches and body shells. And the colors that fumbled over and squeezed past one another--where were they going? if I were to, with a trembling arm, reach out (eyes averted heart pounding) and run my fingers through the kaleidoscopic stampede, what would I feel, and how would it change me?"