Eight Eighteen

and all is well.

He held his hand steadily on the tree limb and mumbled, "Georgia." Although he wasn't crying, there were still tears. Tears of exile. They were green like unicorns who had eaten too many french fries.

All is not well, not for the rainbow interrupted by his howling. A puddle of grass and lily-corn, blue like half of a sticker scraped from the bottom of a star, stared at it all in amazed-confusion. The confusion was magenta and it rained upwards like the holocaust.

"Georgia," he mumbled again, this time more turquoisely. He would let go of the tree limb. It was a light bulb, burnt out and glowing. It pricked him. The blood wasn't a pillow.

Eight Twenty.