Stacks of sugar and proof. You are a girl under the influence, until you’ve seen enough to see that nobody knows anything. Every opinion is a projection and sometimes it’s retaliation. Wanting to know the truth is like venturing into a forest, answering a noble call and eating mushrooms. You can try to convince yourself it’s not poisonous but you already know. Someone once said you can be all things, that humans contain multitudes, they even put it on a sign. All things get swallowed eventually.

The sky, Lupita’s gown, Cinderella, Smurfs, the sky, you, Sailor Mercury, the sky, you, 8-bit skies, Frutiger skies, you, the sky, you, the sky, you, the sky. What else is blue? 

The field of flowers attacks your senses. A saving grace turning a straight line into a bulb. No matter how many times you are dropped into the scene, you adjust to the green. You forget all about stars until tonight.

A violet sky never goes unnoticed. It feels dangerous, a warning at the end of line. A line doesn’t point to a thing. It is the interaction between two things, how they rub up against each other, until you can’t tell the difference. The line keeps the entire universe from falling apart into a blob of jelly. It’s hard to cross it when you’re looking. But by now, you’ve crossed many and didn’t realize until you were on the other side. At the end of the world, you once imagined the soundtrack a swooping eerie silence, no birds or guns left. Now you could go for heavy metal or upbeat disco-synth pop.

The pale blue rolls in, weighing the same as your last page. Dilation of all sorts, sweet pollen and eventually, honey and yum. Light you interpret as serene and blooming, before the nausea of knowing what speed you’re hurtling through the uncontainable sets in. A new story won’t write itself, but the bees know what the flowers want from the way they taste. A cluster of lonely strangers delivering soft blows to each other, playing pretend in the lily-strewn haze.