I see a landscape:

I see grass before me; a long stretch of grass, it’s yellow kindy grass; dry or something. It sticks up out of the ground like a billion zillion pencils made out of paper, strips of paper. To make it easier I will herein describe the grass as “Kenny”.

The sun shines down from the sky. The sky is gray with darker gray clouds. The sun is bright white- looking like a snow ball that is dropping out of...a snowball dropper thing.

The trees (at the end of that long stretch of Kenny) poke out of the ground like popsicle sticks, but round ones, kind of like pencils, but rounder and longer and lumpier, like carrots but browner and “branchy”. Little branches jut out that look like bendy wire hangers at the ends but at the base from where they grow out of the trees- like carrots that taper into bendy wire hangers, but the bendy wire hangers split out or “branch out” and make smaller bendies like bendy tooth picks that want to shake your hand.

If the trees were people they would be a family of tall skinny people wearing lumpy brown leather coats with green leafy fur collars-except the fur collar is kind of a green leafy ocean, or clouds that hover completely intertwined by their leafy tooth picky wire hangers (bendy) growing out of their lumpy leather coats. The leafy ocean is not actually hovering because it is growing out of their heads like a brain and the branches that hold it are like lumpy wirey brain stems that reach out like thoughts that would seem to hover above them all like one giant green and leafy wirey lumpy thought bubble.

A family of tall lumpy brown leather wearing skinny people with no faces all thinking the exact same thing- a giant ocean of green leafy wind shakey thoughts. (If they wrote poetry: “Hark: Greeny leafies, shakey. THE END”)

Standing huddled in a mass as if in an elevator or at a funeral looking out at the long base of dry pencil paper yellowy grass- “Kenny” who lays before them.

There is also a stone, no a rock, a stoney rock. It’s gray and jagged lumpy. It looked like a crushed donut with a helmet with a jagged stomach like a window screen taped in the middle. It looks like some one shot the donut and it fell down and its helmet sticks out and its stomach is choppy, liney, jagged because it was shot and then it turned to stone on top of Kenny.

The trees all walking in a line stopped before it, this stone, and thought of how sad it is and they all thought of the good times; running through fields in lumpy leather with their helmeted funny donut friend! Oh the splendor of those days as they frolicked in fields of “Kenny”, whose pencil yellowy papery laughter would soothe them all like the balm of the snow ball sun above them! Giggles and gusto but...

Now there is sadness. Donut helmet is dead and turned to stone. They stand above, all in rows consumed by sadness for their fallen friend with a singular mourning. Even Kenny is consumed by melancholy “oh why has our donut brother passed?” he asks incredulously through soil strewn lips.

“Oh whoa, whoa, why must it end this way?”

Their grieving is interrupted as they becomes distracted, looking outward past Kenny, seated upon a stretch of concrete (like long gray book marks) beside one of their darker lumpy tall leafless brothers is a pinky lumpy hairless monkey writing something down upon a V shaped slab of white lined leaf skin sheets bound together.

He is looking out at them and his hand (like pink french fries) is scratching down, scribbling rolling lines.

“Who is this idiot?” they all ask in one complete greeny leafy wirey bendy wind strewn thought.

He is looking out at the scene before him and thinks, while a snowball sun is slowly dropping:

“Taking a photo would be much easier”.

THE END