Silky, Sickly, Sweetly Slitted Wrists

It's quite possible that in a surreal wonderland, in some spectorally odd crevice of the vast and morally sporadic universe, there's a place, a world, where everyone gets along. 

Of course it's not very fun world. 

A world where streets are checkered black and white black and white and chess pieces cross the crosswalk like civilized inhabitants. Buildings are solid neon colors like building bricks stacked precariously by the swollen hand of a child. Time melts down the sewer drain into a crocodile cavern of quilts and cliched portraits of welcome.

There are grandiose gardens of lush man eating flowers and shiny and sharp breaths of fresh air upon the napes of many necks. Wild parties, circus mammals, the people who make a living off those and other shenanigans, revolving in harmony. Croquet in a Grecian themed park with Nobody. Awful treats in a shop that sells nautical toys made from whale parts.  

And my little corner of the world is irrevocably poetic and absolutely horrifying that I cannot begin to vomit the amount of detail now ingrained into my mind by a simple glance through a pair of canary yellow binoculars. A horrifying amount of cherry blossom trees to be honest. And a pool; oblong, the water a vivid cerulean blue that sparkles in the agonizing boiled sun. Granite bricks hold it in place as I approach. Floating face up, eyes wide and pitiful, adorned with a hideous azure blue eye shadow and fuschia sticky lip schmuck is a body. It's only after I get past the dreadful flamingo print bathing suit that I'm able to recognize it as my own. At first I'm horrified and appalled: my hair is done up in a bufont with a red scarf tying back my bangs, really? I didn't even think it was possible in a parallel universe. At second glance, I find my denouement- a single bullet wound to the head-the right side of my forehead to be exact. My mouth is agape and the richly thick crimson is starting to stain the pool water. I look gross.  

But scattered about my poetically inclined (quite literally as 'I'm' falling backwards into the hellish depth of the pool) limp body are papers. Papers by the dozens. I don't even have to look at the words on the sickly aging parchment I can taste their meaning.

Words of peace; forgiveness; speaking out against injustice and inequality. Words of love and like. Some kind of coupon, i don't know. 

As my technicolor view of this world fades away I get it. I understand. I, being this anti civilized civilization's poet laureate, was taken down. The people who proclaim peace for all and eternity are always the ones taken out so violently. Queer, isn't it? 

But wait, as previously stated, this was a perfectly, morally correct, lovely wonderland. Why would someone shoot a promoter of peace? Weren't they all promoter's of peace? 

That's the million dollar question.