see that gust of powder far from red or golden. gullies and gullies of eyes jittery. all being pulled at once from all six directions in all dimensions. three petals and a sword they widen, widen and still widen. the expanding spiral majestic green-and-orange striped ray of sound, pigments spilling out between the teeth- tiny transparent hairs. each of them indulge in any colour they like. three of them, two hundred sixty four of them. vibrant smell of rosewood behind the snow dripping off each and every lash. bottomlessly brown bodies, slow and elegant- fluid and strong, light, very light. impossibly light. a step offbeat, a hop right on the next. the hair dyed green this time by an invisible army of invisible invisibles. crackles. ten thousand, ten ten thousand, ten ten thousand thousand ten old record player. flowery but brown horns crackling. very horny. he sobbed rather being a miserable something the not-so-miserable miserable would choose being nothing instead, like a gust of transparent powder. nothing transparent is ever really transparent. water, glass, crystal. crystals just have to include a slight fine touch of personality in their craft of shape shifting. indecisively confused about what to be. always in between, looking like a pair of wild wings soaring in the sky, merely looking like. at least they can look like anything without not looking like themselves anymore. the blind eyes always have a preset, default for how things should look like regardless of what they are actually made of. not even the blind eye. hearts, clubs, diamonds. and spades. a heart, a black heart upside down, stuck on a stick. a war? an assassination? an accident? maybe the owner deserved it. the lust to be a hero, to perform the act of justice the act of cleansing the act of guessing who has the black, rotten heart. the black heart always comes out in the end, from one or another. fool proof plan really. the striped kitten lays its innocent paws on something. a dirty thief. tappity tappity trippty klick. someone is tap dancing along the corridor about the castle. the corridor with water and the spade got the black fish. what a mistake to watch life like a black and white movie, it plays fine, it crackles still, it rises and sets, but red becomes dark grey almost black. the river hound's arsenal of ivory grinders. ivory rams step back and the rubies shine the colour of flesh. of lust. of desire. for anything. for pride for honour for instinct. the black fish is not black and the horny rams now bathe in the ribbons of wine. everything is forming a helix with the closest thing it can find. the black fish is red but ivory is now black. there is always a spade dealt in a game.