A bouquet of flowers. An sunset-colored bouquet of flowers was the last thing I saw. You never received them, the pleasant-smelling pansies in a small brown basket. I will never return home and see your face light up. I will never see "home" again. Your face will never light up again.

I only hope it wasn't painful.

One day I will see you again. For now, the light is blinding, unrelenting, inescapable. The air is humid. It smells of ozone and gasoline and something acrid, when I just so manage to look up I see the sky aflame like the sun, the clouds a tall mass in the distance.