I came.

Columns of the trees connecting grass and sky did not see me. The bushes that struck themselves by sharp complexity of sticks did not see me. The motionless smooth of river reflected, but did not see me.

All them was reflecting, even the sky, motionless, created and left for the while until I come.

I have come. I went and each step, each breath, each blink and shiver of fingers dipped me in deep of cold horror.

I felt the garden that do not see could break from a voice of my steps

I stiffed frozen down by horror awaked by my imagination having drawn a picture of myriads of multi-colored splinters, in which the garden had broke. Splinters do alive and stick in me. To me was very, very, very hurt. But I not scream. I was afraid to open a mouth, because knew, that if they will get in a throat, to me becomes more hurt, because the pain would be not only outside, but inside also.

I stood, held down by horror, and the horror has taken away my legs and bear away them somewhere, for I stood but go

The Horror has taken my hands for I have not touched a garden. He has taken away breast, for I did not scream. He touched eyes, and before he has taken away them, I has seen myself glazed.

I cried.

I was broke in myriads of splinters.

The garden was broke on myriads of splinters.

And there was no it.

And there was no me.

There was a movement of splinters of horror, seeds of a glass, looking somebody to sprout