There is a place, far from here, where the wind whispers rhymes hewn from the words of God.
Where the rocks gleam with the spit of man, massed piles of granite and obsidian rejects, strewn about like marbles from the sky.
A place where all the birds are stripped bare of feathers and limbs and crawl through the grass like beaked-worms.
The trees all bleed milky dew with a scent of berries mixed with old blood, attracting insects that stick and die, wings twitching in the wind.
And the sun burns like a cold moon, a lingering softness you can see with your eyes closed, the feeling of fluttering moth wings on your skin.
In this place there are no doors, no roofs, no hedges, or swings, or daffodils; the people all lie asleep on stone altars waiting for the day they die.
Far, far from here, grass grows like winding, spindly vines, reaching and creeping for rot and treachery, fingers of the earth wrapping and clasping, pulling back beneath.
In the corners of my eyes I see the fires of creation, warping and etching bent twisted metal monsters, charred and rusted and dripping with rain.
Through it all, there is a sickly golden fog, an eternal sunrise wrapped around the earth like a blanket, smothering, warming, choking, caressing.
There is a place, far from here, and I would call it home, save I am here, far, far from there.
And there is not a soul who can tell me which is better.
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