…and as she lay there on the cool autumn grass, the heat from the sky dawned
upon her shivering skin as though warm liquid were being poured upon a
winter rock, and before her eyes the innocent horizon exploded, like Picasso
had a temper tantrum with his paints of vibrant colors, running across the
sky, free and bold, dampening the clouds and staining the world above with
raspberries and plums and oranges and blueberries, hues screaming across the
sky unkempt in all its breath-taking amazement, spawning beautiful shades of
heavenly anger and fury, swirling with the air, and the sweetness touched
her tongue as the envious hills roared into the blood sky, like a
battlefield, with arms of paintbrushes and ammo of color, and the afternoon
sank before her eyes like a defeated circle of bliss retreating to the far
away ice-capped mountains, retreating to its home, forever moving and
sinking down further still, forever at home, until the last of color has
spent eternity draining away and nothing is left but drained cloths, and
deep velvets of space splashed the sky as her heart gave a rhythm like
Indian drums giving the call for graces, and the blues continued on like a
parade of the ocean, swinging its banner of twinkling diamonds so sought
after that to find someone not longing for them is a crime, a crime of
devilish content, sparkling like continuous jewels of ecstasy, and for this
moment of unmet happiness, she smiled.

in the style of jack kerouac. great author, died far too young. he writes
like that, just long sentences of rambling and wonderful words, i envy his
talent.
R.I.P.
Jack Kerouac

you can go on about it being in paragraph form or whatever, but i really
dont care. this is writing, and this site was the only place i knew to post
it.
if it bothers you that much, i give you permission to sue me.
 
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