A distorted forest. Each rivet in bark, a vector– a linear regression against nature. The smell of tortured sap. Demure weeds in winter, sly, waiting for their chance.

The smell of the glade was like burning rubber. Every flower put out the distinct smell of tyre particulates, every weed was an accelerant and every sapling and tree was an oxidiser. In the midst of the summer lillies, he smelled nothing but a reckless fire. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw not the bees gathering pollen or butterflies with their wings painted with surreal abstraction, but roaring pillars of fire and smouldering ruins. With every step through the dewy grass, he could hear the squeal of ash grinding beneath his feet.

When she finally appeared to him, with freckles like tropical islands and blue-green eyes like ponds, teeming with tadpoles and frogs, he only saw red rubbery skin, a wry, pointed smile, and black eyes– like desert oil wells, gurgling with malice.

“I love you,” she said. The words ringed– they were like honey– but echoing close behind them was an undercurrent of molasses. She tried to clasp at him, but he stepped back. Her hands fell limp like singed moth wings, “Aren’t we lovely together?” Yes– lovely. Like tea and crumpets or like a lit match and a gas leak.

He looked up, trying to clear his head. The sky was oscillating between fiery red and calm blue. He could feel the contents of his stomach bubbling. He took another step back– and wiped black sweat from his brow.

“I don’t know what this is,” he said, “And that’s why this hurts so much.”