In June, the sun melted away the breeze that had swayed Manhattan, and life twirled and spluttered in. She danced, a ballerina with open arms, tiptoeing the smells of summer into Central Park. And her lips kissed June love into the hearts of the young, a gentle torturess. Her eyes, as omnipotent as the earth itself, drank in the loneliness that the sun burned into the souls of the city. Twin lagoons of emerald, glassy and uncaring. The eyes of a corpse.

Carolyn Boot crossed Strawberry Fields. She was a wisp of daylight, a slice of perfect joy. She lit a candle in the eyes of the boy who gazed at her, and he became a silent watchman. The stinging bleach of the daylight was a shadow on her hair, and the green of the trees turned to gray ash in her eyes. She was the fresh wind, and the grass rippled and bowed before her, the face of each jade soldier turning white with fear.

She turned and looked at him, her dress a dancing Victorian rose, and the world was green. Instantly alive and throbbing, but still as a sheet of glass, winking and silent as the stars. Clear and shallow, a turquoise stream. Time rushed to escape, but she could not be concealed. As she towered over him, a fist of garish cobalt blue shattered the glass, and his mind exploded in scarlet. Sounds once again greeted the boy, smothering his ears, as a man swathed in the sea waddled towards Carolyn. Dull and gray, his beady eyes were fixed upon her. Her hair ceased to caress her face, and it fell to stillness in the quivering manner of a dying animal.

She looked down.

And her face of hot sculpted marble shattered with delight, just as the man hurled fireworks of water and forest at her feet.

Cold, white stars.

Chips of animal teeth.

Into the heart of the boy.