Nice Limbo You Have Here

A pulp, you say? Well yes, I have been chewed for awhile. This place is pale, all of the colors leached out. The horses are thirsty, I can tell. Their tales barely swat at the swarms of flies that linger even in February. In limbo, there are always insects. It's 40 in the morning, but 70 by the afternoon. And so colorless it hurts the eyes. So colorless you feel yourself pulled down as if gravity itself cannot stand up to this chillless winter. I can remember vibrancy as if a dream, fleeting and flickering, a child's distance laughter.