when fiction makes perfect sense.

somewhere along the gravel path between here and nowhere i take a seat by the side of the road. on the horizon the cold yellow glow of sunlight emanates from behind distant mountains, while a warm blood-red moon surfs sand dunes towards the sea. in the rose scented breeze, voices invade my ears, too soft to be understood, yet too loud to be ignored, and i struggle to decide if i am hearing the lingering tinkles of windchimes or gentle footfalls of seraphs. here along the roadside, i can only sit with my eyes closed and feel breaths on my skin, since searching for ghosts with my eyes proves nothing but fruitlessness. under a neaby willow tree, emblazoned by green falling fire in weeping branches undulating with the wind, stone portals to surreality lay in vine-choked moss-covered disrepair. down the road what seem like the twin rounds of headlights approach before disappearing into the evanescing heat waves of the shimmering road-face atmosphere, running by me with nothing more than the sound of tires upon gravel and a small scattering of pebbles. across the landscape before me, three black umbrellas roll head-over-heels like tumbleweeds, their hooked handles searching for anything to cling to. pulling out a pocketwatch from my vest, i read 0:64 in bold red letters before returning time to its sleep with a sigh. towards the south, palm trees along the mountainridge wave silhouetted against the daylight while scattered about the dunes, white oaks stand outlined against the night-light. dark clouds over the sea flash with crimson-violet lightning, sending down silent sheets of rain to ripple the water's glassy face, and standing up, i dust off the seat of my pants and kick the sand from my shoes, stepping over the grass and back onto the roadway. setting off again for here or nowhere, i resume my stroll while heavy- tulip- heads- brush against my shins.

illusion is the first of all pleasures.
: wilde.