Fluttering and flaring in the grey ashes of the wintry mist, lengths of copper hair drift into the green, isolated setting, where butterflies flutter and twitch and lay eggs of slime and silk. Amongst the lime-flavoured leaves and the golden daises; a figure clad in red-and-black tartan stands erect, straight and tall like a cactus tree, the discoloured flesh and skin melting into the white-tipped sky and the silver atmosphere. Lips pursed together like staples; the solid girl treads a crunched and ruined path, grey-coloured, flat soles stomping on the gentle, earthly ground. The muddied branches snap and crackle as each step consumes her on a journey to nothingness, black eyelashes jammed onto her lids, and her purplish-hued bone jutting prominent as a jagged cliff of rocks. Crimson, ruby red drops of ink stain the bricked bridge behind her, her steady tread creating a drumbeat of sound, and the quiet birds twittering a lyric of melancholy and sorrow and lament. Chocolate-shaded eyes flicked with particles of green gaze out at the road ahead and the dust molecules pour out of her red-rimmed film; as the little ladybirds, and the carved worms and the dragon flies, lie on the ground in a fairy-like dance of doom and darkness and glittered wings. Velvet black border encloses her neck bone, and the auburn shades of fire and teal arise in tones of sunset; the dark swirls of magnificence and paint glinting in the night scene.                                           Leather, studded boots smash onto the moss-ridden floor and the white-flecked owl gifts a song of pale mist, and wood-coloured carvings, as the girl pirouettes and dangles off the setting; in a land of her own dreams, and terrors and imagination.                                                                     The intones of voice, and the notes of vagueness flurries from her cracked lips, and she sighs and says: “The night air glimmers like a simile of stick insects, and fireflies and the burning wood, and the animals depart for dusk hours; and I am so very, very alone. The traces of melody, and floras scatter amongst the rose-laden path, and the honeysuckle sunflowers recoil as feelers, as I approach the winding road where all must come to an end.”                                                      Shrouded in blush-pink bluebells and sapphire posies, a crown of flowers falls from her thinning hair, and the hairclips drop onto the meadow bed.                                                                               The lips form an aquatic image and mutter: “The grey trail ends here; in the dull shades of ash and white and gold and bronze, and my slippers deliver me to my door…”                   …and the door shuts, leaving behind it a stream of magic and dust.