A diamond in the dark. A matchstick in the wind. As I sleep on a mountain green, I slip into a purple dream. Where wind and water wash away the remnants of desire. Where, at last, A million years past, I go home.
Home is a garden under the world.
A garden in a graveyard. Where crimson poppies bloom from the bones of the dead. There are no wars here. There are no victories. Just the soft whirl of the stars.