In smoothing line of transparency, the body hits the bush, revealing the earnest sensations disguised as pain. Nor the brain needs it, nor the heart. It’s just there to make the “need” a way to its chosen place. Whoever touches the bush, makes it their fireplace. Nor the bush burns nor the body. But surely the brain and heart that disguised the pain.
All of a sudden, there’s a scream! No, it’s not the soul. It’s not the body either. It’s the bush who gave the eternity of story the reason to burn. To glow like it meant to be. To make the people around it feel warm.
The bush burns, as the body gets cremated. Everyone’s with the bottle of blood, thinks it’s an amazing hour not to think. But, but… they hardly know the thought of this cosmic creature, reddening in the bush, took their glass of thinking to serve the blood that’s pure as the rays of the sun.
The fire ends, so the scream. The glasses enjoyed, so the bush. The smell fades away but not the story…