I looked to my right over the shoulder of a man threatening me, out a blue-tinted window. The sun hung low over the violet ocean, drawing its reflection along the water like a narrow white path. I stared at it, but my eyes did not burn. The light stripes the glass, a single blazing line.
The man continued to explain why I had to die. I looked over his other shoulder, out another window. The purple ocean lapped against a burned shore. I see it still--
Felled trunks of redwood trees lie scattered across the blackened land like corpses of giants. A few trees, still standing, hunker down amidst the charcoal. The colors shine beautifully, but I want to cry. This scene is not supposed to be lovely to look at. It is so wrong that such destruction can have the iridescent colors of a raven's wing.
In the dream, I cried about the wrongness, and the man who wanted me dead turned and tried to comfort me. . .