The tinfoil hero dreams flying over pines. Oh, town absorbed in shadow, the blond mad king is driving Yellow Cab from Laguna Beach to El Cerrito. It happens every day. On light-blind water, surface gods shatter yet hold like metaphysics to old chronologies where rage can suddenly matter. The lake shakes twice but only slightly spills.
Blood absorbs more slowly, dulling as it dries.
One's concept of dimension suffers challenge then. The fence tends limits, breaks linear circles frozen as a rope. Rob Roy's blood plot defeats effete evil. Leaves surmount the wall restricting other worlds and fall to pieces there. Eyes blue as doll shoes, she tells the movie version but swells, stops, waits as Frank kills Nick.