Her flavour was strawberry, but her lips tasted of pineapple... and I stared into her peachblossom eyes because I knew she would be looking into my avocado, eggshell dunes.
When I say avocado, I don't mean that pleasant fleshy tone; I mean that dark green skin that makes your pupils seem white.
Outside the neon glow of the 9:11 bar sat the cold afterglow of dawn.
I kissed her again and ignored her fading smile.

***

Below me are the streets of old. They are the remnants of a more daunting era for the television had only just begun to scream and global warming was barely a candle flicker.
Industrial Revolution - me in the middle. My arm, of cogs and wheels, seemed irrelavant compared to the clockwork wonderments now policing the streets.

Well, that was Nicetown... and now I'm back below the clouds that flourish pink.