An overall metallic taste from Sick Llama, set somewhere in the 12th Century, where tactile connections tap against the chain mail of the grey runners. Grey on grey. Nickels in the fountain.
Rope burn. Square wheels creak; their tread kicks up moss and elephant tusks. The alarms are sounded, woven through cactus skeletons. Cackles and screams across small brush fires. Bombs away. The moss lands in the gulf, sinks to the bottom, and settles near a dead diver and his rusted helmet. The diver’s left arm extends into an ocean with improper pH balance, an ocean piling up with corpses turning to paste, wearing mossy grins.
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