The sky started beyond the edge of the hotel grounds. Palm trees had stopped in mid run. All that was left of the children were their voices. The whitewashed wall of time peeled. The mind cast a red glow on it like a bed of geraniums.
I brought the match to my nose, expecting a fragrance. The purple flowers were like stairs leading to nowhere. The answer lay beyond the curve of the beach where the clouds were piled up like driftwood.
from the volume photographs are like flowers