Red. Red pen. Red truck. Red car. Red pencil. Red face. Red lips. Red blood. Red blood, pooling on the floor, under the drawings in red crayon on the wall. Black mask. Black gun. Black thoughts. Black deed. Pitch black heart. All responsible for the red on the floor. Red and blue lights are too late. The deed is done. The fear is wrought. The blame game is begun. And the clear, wet, salty tears have just begun to run. Salty, like the ocean, like a pretzel from a street vendor. And bitter, like grapefruit, like the cough syrup of childhood. Perhaps of the childhood that was stolen by the black heart. Despair, grey despair, drapes the formerly emerald green place, a cloak that traps and suffocates. Everything is grey. It was bright once, wasn’t it? No one remembers. Who could remember, when the grey has lasted for such an everlasting eternity? It has stopped time. The figures of the place are ten years older than they were yesterday, and yesterday they were ten years older than the day before. Such age, the grey brings, when black hearts spill red blood across the floor.