I am floating across a whirling landscape pulsing with transcendental nebulas. My view is distorted, and for once, it is not my tears I have to blame for my hazy sight. The waves of sound, too, are twisted and warped, writhing as they reach my spellbound ears. It is chill, but I care not for its penetration into my every pore. It is merciful, this chill. Now I see the sun setting. A red colour stains the sky, and the heavens seem to shed tears of blood. The last sunrays flicker, they are about to die as they continue to feebly dye the clouds with that crimson hue. Birds fly across the horizon, and they are silent; I hear not even the beating of their swift wings. I stand up and cast aside the dirty cloak of reality and I stretch out my arms, welcoming the nocturnal hour. Night approaches me and shields me with her mantle. The clouds are few, and I can see her tiara of stars suspended above me as she stoops over me to close my eyes with her glacial fingers and caress my brow with the sweetest, iciest kiss conceivable.
Somewhere nearby an ambulance comes to a screeching halt, its siren blaring, its lights flashing murder. On the curb, I can see a young girl lying on her side. An empty packet containing the residue of some white powder is resting near her elbow.
Polychromatic clouds unexpectedly rush across my view, and an iridescent folly takes hold of me, and the fog around me begins to shiver and quiver.
I stumble on through the ever-morphing landscape of my warped mind, and I see myself lying there on the curb, she is dead, I am dead, and the fog around me is nothing more than the souls of the dead. I blink in order to see clearly while I try not to drown in the sea of my thoughts which are like so many scattered fragments of pictures cut up with a sharp pair of scissors; fragments blown away by the wind which scolds the trees and makes them weep leaves as they stretch out their gnarled limbs towards the unmerciful sky.
I reach for the syringe.