Toenail tips at the edge of the cliff, downward spiral to welcome death as destiny and evolution compete for action. He waves to spectators organized around the plunge pool. Waterfall spits droplets and decorates his khakis with bland polka-dots, the moisture of which saturates his leg hairs like a cold shower and prompts Goose-Pimples to decorate his appendages. He forms his hands into a makeshift megaphone,
“I thank you for attending my suicide!” He announces, crowd cheers in response. “I see you’ve received my fliers. If you could…would you please count me down!”
“ONE! TWO! THREE!” Crowd recites in unison.
Moss is to hieroglyphs as language is to a slow tongue. Mossy moans. Pause on stone and mossy moan like a vine clone. Flint sparks designate the pulse of flame to pump smoke along the feigned trail of forever eaten and gone and done. Sandstone gathers, applies eyes to kitchen windows and invites the observer to overlook the qualities which make street art unique.
Red bike and red stop sign.
Green house and green grass.
Sky, not to be understated, but if blue happened to be a different color our retinas would melt.
Reached the shore, handprint alone in the sand and he remembers tracing his name in a layer of dust coating the television, images on screen appeared clearer in the outline of his moniker.