The Foxy Neutrino

The psychology of the sun is strange... The violinist's taupe strapped sandals, color of beach sand, burning, slap tiles with embedded grime, like the charred plaster walls of a Syrerian merchant. Anytime...a fear: bombs dropped, scarring an isolated biped life. Morning edges spill light the tint of egg- whites commixed with the yolk, brewing the dream that souses the intangable permeation of the air; imbued rose colors of birth; or a prom's carnation, white tinted blue like the cottony sky draped over the fringes of liminal lives cast onto the arcane stage of a paralyzed mortality. A need of warmth for the flower, the snug petals that breach an infernal cut into the animus in life. A stygian gash insufferable like a pompei brain cooked into glass, a fossil the tinct of diabolical eyes. An appollyn rises to seize the sun's foxy neutrino, more easily snared than bombs.