Někdy je to opravdu moc pěkně napsáno:
Red. It's the color of the sky as the sun sets behind the stacked hovels. It's the color of the dust that coats the massive obelisk rising beyond the hovels, holding back the endless waters of the Oasis.
It's the color of her skin. The woman's name is Sucya. Her skin turns red when she's afraid. A mutation.
Red is the color of her blood, running from the gash in her forehead. Red is your rage as you look at the two men who tower over her, laughing raucously, taking turns to vent their spite.
You can smell it, the blood and their loathing. It stinks worse than Sucya's fear.
Red. It's the color of the sky as the sun sets behind the stacked hovels. It's the color of the dust that coats the massive obelisk rising beyond the hovels, holding back the endless waters of the Oasis.
It's the color of her skin. The woman's name is Sucya. Her skin turns red when she's afraid. A mutation.
Red is the color of her blood, running from the gash in her forehead. Red is your rage as you look at the two men who tower over her, laughing raucously, taking turns to vent their spite.
You can smell it, the blood and their loathing. It stinks worse than Sucya's fear.