Metal prongs clap edges of cards that slap in succession. I won't go to bed if you don't ask me. This doesn't happen if you're asleep. Palm trees in emitted flux, flick in time to their 8-bit beat. Desert electronic, lurid sands lure struggling feet.
Cards spread in a circle of light.
In the spectered, hollow church, scenes of torment char the child-like eyes. A pimento scarred me once. Field is carmine, a wazir crawling with ease through a rainbow wheel of icicles and cloud. Pencil line precise as long as card is not turned. Identical en visage but one with fronds more attenuated.