The green hill. An immaculate, polished, perfect hill.
Two tiny streams flow tranquilly down changing colours as they empty into a calm, clear lake. There is a figure lying at the bottom of the lake.
At the top of the hill a gentle pulsing begins. A whisper wind in the ear tells me to step back.
A giant persimmon rolls down the hill and splashes into the lake breaking into thousands of marbles which skim along the surface. They transform into black balls flying towards me. They seem like eyeballs and they travel straight and true following a barely visible grooved bore. I’m staring into a rifle bore and hear a shot.
I turn to see a white horse stumbling in the furrows of a freshly tilled field.