into the empty

and the glistening hand swam t'wards the pale purple sun.  A long line of creatures mired in the marsh stopped and listened to the frogs and toads.  An army of insects line the coveted leaves and a million lights rose from the steam.  The tree's were few and memorable, they dragged up to the stars a beard of silver tentacles and hushed a curved canopy beneath the night.
By day the olive drab covered much and the relief only was a mottled braun.
A red desert lay beneath.  And every hundred years or so it would appear, black pebbles and all.  Drink in the sunshine, and then disappear beneath the clear and present waters, darkening steadily with the algae.
A distant world, a memory wrapped in soft paper and hessian string, bound by the mysterious will of the mind.