Oil Tanker At Sunset

Fanta sky.
My, oh my.
Leaving you would be silly.
Paradise is relative, really.


I once had a dream that I lived in a small house in a wheat field. Everything was quiet and the sun was warm and there was this orange juice sky that stretched for years.
That would be nice.
A few years ago, on a train in Europe, I saw that field. The sky was partly cloudy, there was a breeze, it was cool. The wheat swayed with the wind. It didn't feel right. Didn't feel like my dream.
I guess dreams never do feel right if made into reality. Their whole point is that they are elusive. Unicorns.
What happens when you win? What happens when you capture a dream? Does it all just go away?
Something like that.
There is an orange juice sky, crisp, yet smooth. It reflects itself on a glazed ocean.
You can feel the sea wind. Taste the salt. Smell the ocean, that sharp smell of baked water and the life within it. Hear the waves crashing.
The sun is perfect. It always is, but you never really noticed it before now.
A billion bubbles are created and dashed to nothingness as the crest of a wave foams and batters itself on itself.
But this is harmony.
Sun. Sky. Water. Warmth.
And the oil tanker on the horizon, polluting it all.