The air was warm and clear, with a thick, murky contradiction to it. It was easy to breath, but hard to touch. The moon was silver in the clear night sky, but it was nowhere to be seen, I think a nymph hid it that night, they're mischievous like that. The sky was red as blood and seemed to drip down on us in thick, billowing breezes. There was a breeze, a lit fluffy one, like you get on summer nights; it was a warm, warm winter night. The swings were quiet, but the playground echoed in memory of children at play. A light shined down on us, blue like the sea, only brighter. The trees were black and gnarled in the sky; no wonder she was bleeding on us, the branches were tarring at her like wolves. There was a hollow reflection of daytime, like a parallel universe. We stayed there, in our little bubble, in our own little world, in the day that was night, under the blood red sky.
