The hills are green and rolling. They are also furred with soft, sickly weed, which, upon stepping, explosively squirt squirming coral-coloured maggots. The sky is wavy with squiggles of cartoon blue, on which cocaine puffs of clouds rollercoast. Above all this is a sun the yellow of pusillanimity sending visible sinewaves of its heatlight falling upon objects to be sucked tight and sent back another-shaped sinewave. Saltwash of earthentear ocean is between the hills, furiously thrashing, sending up gales of piscine life and commas of decapod crustaceans. The scribbles of a child, genetically engineered sea gulls dipped in oil swoop, peeling fans of crude from feathertips. Houses of stone and wood and paper and steel and bamboo barnacle the hills, homes building upon homes, a shaky structure of bustling society. The sun spins like a dot on a dial and brings a tattoo of luminescent duality.


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