Land of glass spun and blown to a single point, a saber, to prick at and scold the skin.
Land of salt mines, rolling around in them, to fill the wounds.
Land of glowing orange orbs, as if of molten sugar, melting to a pool of burnt caramel.
The caramel drips down the walls of a darkened room; glow from a video camera.
Pleasures of the highest sense; feelings of warmth and security.
Plastic balloons blown up to their limit float up and replace the dead clouds.
Pop-up screens blister forth, and all structure strobes away.
Luar Domatrix reaches out a steady hand, quaking.
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