Everything's so sticky. The inside of my mind is sludged all over with leaden toffee. Nauseating in its drab and monochromatic undulations. And it's not the sensuous call of a Doors song in the summer. It's not the crush and smother and smoulder of Gloria in the incandescent noonday sun. Its more like what I would imagine it to be if I were thrown in a pool of mozzarella and asked to swim.
But then the sludge of this redundant tune-- slowed down to a thickly oozing tempo-- was suddenly illuminated, splashed into movement and coloured with the gold and pink.
or wouldnt you rather have it in "red gold and green"?
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