Tiled Sinner's Ceiling.

The color I would have to recall would be that of maple cream, the kind my mother would make when the leaves changed. She put it in everything, from coffee to cake. Pale, but dark at the same time. Pale darkness. To think when you dust the face of that golden, paint the eyes are deep cherry oak color to contrast the ever gleaming demeanor of 'nothing truly exists here'.

O

Small excerpts of life are much better than no recorded history at all. Fictional or as real as day. From the fingertips of a real person, or a mere personality. Consider the role of the story teller. Now, consider the role of the teller's audience. It's all important in the end. And if it isn't, well, I suppose it truly does end there.

O

The burn. A suck of smoke misted with gasoline mint. Train of thought coasting on a bridge over water. Steel and solemn, sworn to hold your path steady and steer you straightforward on your journey. Impending doom is bestowed upon every person during their first breath. To think you can escape that through living a certain way, well, props to your capabilities.
A strong drink over ice, in a short glass with a thick bottom. Liquid gold in a cup, sip it at your leisure. The things we give ourselves aren't nearly as nice as the things we give others. And if you don't give nice things to others, you should put that glass down.
Will you suffocate or drown?

O

A flickering ember in the center of what used to be a burning fire. A ghost flame consuming the flesh of excitable matter. Sparking a light with each kiss upon its skin. Delicate. Disastrous. Lustful, it drinks in every inch of what will succumb to the power. Touching fragile things with rough hands. Being harsh to the gentle. Consuming. Forever.

O