Reporting a state of mind

The Sun bleeds all over the horizon when twilight comes. The blood dries up during the night and the following day's morning, but only to cover the scenery all over again in the evening. The gore floats over barren soil in the form of big red veils and gets stuck in the branches of dead trees.

The heat is unbearable in the desert at noon. The hills and valleys of sand-dunes don't move, because even the wind doesn't come out this far. Shadows form faces with the eternal death-scream frozen onto them. Human skeletons drag themselves tirelessly in the sand. Their bone-fingers dive into the grains of sand and they keep crawling in the swelter. They are damned souls, mortal remains of optimists. They are the ones who said life was beautiful and that there is always sun above the clouds. They are the ones who lied and said everything would be all right. They are the ones who never gave up hope. They are still looking for their oasis, the land of promises. And the sand will forever guard the trails of how they dragged their own bone-bodies.

Grey oceans ripple ruefully under the cloudy sky. Their surface is covered with rotting whale- and fish carcases in a way that the water itself and the rainbow-like oil stains on it can hardly be seen. The stenchy remains rise and fall along with the waves into eternity. Sometimes rain falls out of the clouds; slow, drizzling rain, just like when someone cries.

There is no life on the old continent. The last shreds of skin of civilization have long disappeared. A rusty coke can lies on the rubble of the desert as a memento to the fact that people lived here once. The buildings have all crumbled to the ground. Screaming vulture-skeletons float around the castle ruins, while skulls of rats are watching them from the dried-up, cracked ground.

During the night the dry vastness of forests are filled with ghosts, their moans rustle between the creaking branches. Dead pieces of trees keep falling to the ground, making billions of tiny clicking sounds. Ghosts fly around weeping in the moonlight, resting on stone-dry tree trunks and only the first pale rays of the Sun can shoo them away.

The planet looks pathetic even from outer space. It's just floating in nothing, like a dead fish in a river. You can hardly tell the lead-grey seas from the slate-grey shores.

In the spacestone-zone behind Mars, God's corpse is floating along with angel cadavers and their frozen wings.