Teak crickets in a marble fog, the old branches creak, break, rock. Within a minute hove, a little mouse squeaks, whilst the bullfrogs, they do hop. In the garden outside, I see my escape, for the world isn’t as bleak as it seems. No bodily decay from hopeless nights could distract me from this white, this yellow, and this green. For, today, the great sun can burn the flesh, and there’s more lemons on the trees than normal. I’ll come and go from this place, until only I go, and cease laying blue ink in this journal. It all ends with me, in this body, this mind, these writings that this paradise can stir. I only hope one day someone else takes this pen, and plucks the beauty from right out of the air.