Purple, oh sweet purple, sweeps West and I have never been able to see it to its end point. Thought the naysayers were winning but they weren’t. Though the naysayers were winning, they weren’t and I was alive and victorious and powerful and no one could see the colors of the sky streaking madly West across the plains. Without our ability to see color and smell the sky we are animals, lost and floating in this world of teeth and scales and fur. Grasses tickle the back of my throat as I crawl beneath the sun’s mad scrutiny. The hairs of the Earth tickle the back of my throat and I feel tremendous hunger. Shopping malls and haunted halls, the epitome of sadness made flesh, an unholy promise to the next generation that they shall have nothing that we call common. Days swirling into night and night spinning into chaos. Endings never announce themselves. Sickness sickness, its calling card yellow, putrid, vile, foul. Sweet sweet air, blue, fresh, water screaming the silent screams of echoes of plants chewed to mulch. Slaughtered without mercy. How the plants scream! How the plants scream. A dirge for the seasons. Hallowed trinkets. Teeming bazaars of half-remembered shames fleeing my mind’s grasp. And here. I am here. Sleeping awake in the grass. Wind my only company. Songs of wolves and trees giving me strength but sapping my will. I lie. I lie. I lie. Alone, I lie, sallow grasses—golden misnomer—surrounding me, a bed in which I find no rest. On the tip of my tongue is knowledge. Fleeting! Fleeting! We rot and feed the descendants of those we slaughtered to grow. Beasts marching across my eyes, teeth, scales, fur. Talons. Miserable plague wolf. Mewling suckling lamb. Paired, forever. My teeth grind to nothing. Holes in my brain allowing space-time to make itself known to no one at all. On the horizon, fire sweeps away the decay of human ages, flotsam upon the great sea of grass. In the stars, fire sweeps away the future of mankind, jetsam upon the sea of forever. Twisted are the souls seeking penance, and lonely are those who may grant it. There is no salvation but what we affect ourselves, the knowledge of which is mint-flavored on the tip of my tongue, elusive, impossible to take hold of. My bones are powder imbued with sickening life. We are all dust and ash. The shame of those who created us. God is man, and I am the Coyote. Take this fire, my children, for I bring you the life of man, and I bring you illness and I bring you shame. For nothing is perfect but to lay here, alone, in this shifting field of the Earth’s whiskers, tickling my throat as purple, sweet purple, child of red and blue, sweeps mystical and wild West, to a place we may never reach lest we have already found ourselves dead and floating on the waves. Time no longer important.