This is the evil room, where life red and death black played together on the walls. They remember the games they used to play, and how sometimes, he'd count the days by their rhymes and songs.
This is the evil room, where his brother tried to kill the light and the glass at the same time. His brother was doomed to drown in that same life red, because all his paints were gray scales.
This is my evil room. Behind painted frames, doors, and windows open to bricks. Can you imagine the sky through a crack in the bricks? Even that marvelous sky blue becomes white, simply for the lack of shrouds.
Rivers grew up and down, spreading into branches of our family tree, and rooting deep within the scratched earth. I drew them on the floor, but I ran out of ink before I had the chance to deal the next hand of cards. And by the time I got home, you'd already thrown them out anyway.
This is the evil room, where wings blossomed out of years of neglected ink. Feathers dipped in it, but never meant to fly from this evil sanctuary. Where he sat, staring at the solitary yellow rectangle hovering in the snake abyss.
I'll do a card trick, and prophet a proper ending. One with less objection. I will rewrite this Gemini, and let the game continue with two Kings. It really is impossible to play with a solitary patriarch. The game is already won.
Of course she remembers. She found that evil room amidst the others, and shattered the tissue door with one touch. Amazing that such a slight sleight could baffle even the most attentive viewers. I'll record the video of it later.
He didn't hear anything over the volume of his glass body. A pessimists favorite glass, everything was spilled on the floor around him. Don't cry over it. Don't cry over all of this spilled spirit. You left the light on before all of this, there was one single letter.
One single letter in one single letter.
How does one seek the perfect words when there are so many to choose from? I stole that book, and planted it with the botanical prophecies. Hoods fell over yellow stars and the radiance of his new golden sunset was still. Daisies didn't help matters.
People of the stringy winter, listen to the prophet. His warning waxes cold. Kill with this ruler skill. The aftermath will burn the ruby memory; these moments are precious. Opals can't shake the stinging wounds, no more than silence comforts those valleys in red. What good does a candle with no wick do?
For a song, I sang.
For his life, I died.
Take me by my heart, but don't cut your hand on it.