This was what she saw:
Saturated colours everywhere: the fire of the skies under a swift sunrise, the green of the leaves, of the blades of grass, the brown of the soft earth, the trees, the birds roaming free above. An endless horizon, far away. Close by, the smell of wet earth, fresh from the night's soft rain. Birds perching on the tree tops, brushing themselves with morning dew, preparing to cross the skies with joy. Ladybugs in the grass, bees buzzing around the morning flowers. Sweet, sweet nectars. Colourful dragonflies racing across the small streams that run peacefully towards that distant horizon, frogs splashing and singing their songs in the water. Life. The senses of life, that ease her mind and lift her heart. Peace. Always peace.


This was what he saw:
A dark place of twisted metal, sharp and rusty, smokestacks bursting from deep underground and coughing endlessly, painting the sky gray and black and brushing the land with perpetual smog. The air thick, poisonous. Pools of slime and oil scattered all around, reeking pitch-black oil, sometimes cold and dead, sometimes boiling as with fever. No life; small rusty automata wander everywhere, their clockwork organs consumed by a plague of rust. He could hearing them, a faint, irregular buzz of worn-out cogs and gears screaming for life where only death can thrive. Clockwork worms crawl in the rusty ground, as clockwork beetles and dragonflies fly around, engines assuming the form of life while being unable to replace it. Metallic bushes sprout everywhere, like a living tangle of barbed wire with razor-sharp leaves and nail-like thorns. Oppression. A desolate land, a clockwork parody of life, with no other purpose than that one. Oppression.

- love alone is never enough -