He would drag it down, trail his fingers down and dig his fingers in, peeling away skin. He could taste it, smell it, feel it - skin sliding away, giving way like the surface of water. The scent of fire and grass and wood and flesh. The background flickered, dimmed, flickered, glowed and whispered. Dust, ashes, sand coating his tongue, moonlight dripping down his chest, flowing over his hair and splashing carelessly across the ground. Ebony sky, ivory moon. Heat enveloping him, but it was so cold and it was so hot. It was windy and suffocating and he was dying and he could taste it, smell it, feel it. There was pain, there was pleasure, there was love, love, love just beyond his sight, love in his play-pretend world, in his dying world, in the abyss of his eyes. He longed and writhed and moved and swayed and his senses sang for more. He hated it.