his_eyes_closed_themselves cr0wl when he woke, the sun had long since risen. it hung in the morbid sky like a rusty medal on a rotting corpse. the colors dying. they shifted from bright orange to dried blood. from nacre to bister. from cool dead greys to piegon shit. 080428 ... PeeT underneath the lids, he saw an abstract array of the memory of color, lingering fragment of western dreams, rekindling a magnified sense of a life once lived, an adventure written within a collection of journals, perhaps 25, now stored in a wardrobe by the window that looks out to the horses. 111213 what's it to you? who go blather from