I know why you can’t open your eyes. I know. You’re rusting. Everyone is. Brown rust. Bronze, yellow and black rust. Everyone is turning to rust. The world is. The oceans are turning dark blue and shiny. The trees are green and heavy with death on their shoulders. Everyone wants to rust. What a colorful world. Shiny, beautiful, magnetic.
Keep pretending it’s not real. Go on. Keep writing down in your diary that the blood was just thicker paint. That the murderous, suicidal feeling were just artistic inspirations. The tears, rain. The cuts, beautiful strokes of red. The throbbing veins were just dancing. The sweat, pearls in the Sun. Where were you when the masterpiece ended up in a wooden frame?