The sky, a black and purple bruise, sheltering the earth, rushing the powerful taste of iron blood into the mouth. It aches and cries with stars; salty tears. Milky clouds are chased by chilled and minty winds that touched the tops of candy-coated mountains. The wounded sky seemed to swallow the whole world, bursts of sweets and spices. There were bubbles that fizzed and popped, tickling the inside of each cheek. There were crunches and crisps that cut the tongue, and liquids, cold and warm, that cooled and comforted. All the flavors swirled together, demonstrating a vision of the land, mountains, valleys, the sea and lakes and rivers, the people and the culture; the beautiful chaos of it all. All was in that one taste, each flavor contributing something new, something different. But the night sky could not take all that flavor for itself. So, the torrid sun rose, a band aid for the dark, beaten sky. The sun came not only to the rescue, but to try the flavors for itself, and the night sky was temporarily relieved of its suffering, it's pain.