He stood still, staring at the night. merging his eyes with the horizon, the darkness as a plain wall of nothing just in front of him. A flat lawn all around, empty, just as dark as the sky.
He couldn’t tell the color, neither if the lawn could have one. As far as he knew, it could be simply as dark as it was now, also in the daylight.
He wasn’t alone, he was pretty sure about that. Nevertheless, there was no one around, there weren’t people or animals, nothing. So, it was a sensation, an intuition, sort of.
And he knew pretty well how much an intuition may be just reality in a while.
A sort of anticipation of something, a jump into the time and then back again, a crack in the time itself,
a window momentarily open that gives you a chance to glance outside.
As a slap in his face, he suddenly felt such an atmosphere, the mood of the place and the situation
The harsh pain of a slap almost scratching his cheek.
Stories and novels, stories and shades of words. Sapphire can be a voice, a whisper, a night talk. Colours in words, words merged and melted with pictures. Words as colours, words as shapes sometimes overlapping with the visual experience. A different way to see the world or, maybe, just the very same way using different tools and finding different paths.