The tulips are too excitable, it is winter here. Look how white everything is, how quiet, how snowed-in. I'm learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly. As the light lies on these white walls.
I have nothing to do with explosions. I didn't want any flowers, I only wanted to lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty. How free it is, you have no idea how free.
The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me. Their redness talks to my wound, it corresponds. They are subtle: they seem to float, though they weigh me down upsetting me with their sudden tongues and their colour.
Nobody watched me before, now I'm watched. The tulips turn to me, and the window behind me between the eye of the sun and the eyes of the tulips. I have no face, I'm a cut-paper shadow. The vivid tulips eat my oxygen. They are opening like the mouth of some great African cat, and I'm aware of my heart: it opens and closes. It's bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me.

(From "Tulips" by Sylvia Plath)

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White noise from nowhere.
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The air froze in tension like the walls of houses. Twilight. Nobody's around. There will be a mutiny.
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Palm Jumeirah is an archipelago of artificial islands (Dubai, UAE). Views and patterns