the golf island
Fly a plane, without pain, through the fire; land on greens ideal for
golf. On this island safe from fear, suddenly you seem handsome and strong;
thinking you were safe was wrong; blue and red robots fly towards you and
your untrained crew. New found powers, inlaid with confidence allow you to
bend their metal shells exposing fiery hearts that bleed flames of red, red
like the hair of a woman who sits alone on a bench. She motions to circular
sugary discs; asking you for one, with a flick of the wrist they float fast to
her hands. Behind you, an image of past, lost love. Your arm around fire
you face forward.
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