Looking down, the utter cocaine-white, the burnished steel shining--glowing in the light dropping down as from on high. Angels sing gorgeous, discordant hymns to God in the background, but all is now, this moment, and the fountain erupts, sending steam to the heights.
Looking forward, a man with my face, his beard white as the snow on the kudzu untrodden in the chill of the nascent January morning--but below, the black can be seen, the vines burned beneath the powder. Slowly, both snow and kudzu vanish, burned away in the sharp light that glitters on steel.
The edge cuts too deeply, and a furrow appears, the earth spilling forth its ruddy richness, drop by agonizing drop. This is no ploughing, but a harrowing. Down the slope and into the valley, pooling there for a moment, and then dropping down off the face of the world, into the void, polished white and gleaming steel--it dissolves in the fountain, and is absorbed, and is no more.