A shrapnel paroxysm.

“Can you turn away from this vapid, tepid landscape, ample in ambit and absent of digression? It is discolored.”
A bilious wanderer wonders along the proverbial plane infinite
where he abides his time before a cityscape of the reticulate, the immaculate,
and the precise: stone-prisms.
And beyond, the external, eternal spheres of Heaven bloom and gloom of a God gone missing.
A child with a grenade in his stomach stops the awful excursionist, and inquires his condition;
they speak of certainty and fortune, and serendipity and torture, and the child is quoted to say, of the grenade: “It’s not so much the explosion of my innards as it is the chaos made within them—in my decision, it lacks precision.”
In urbane moonlight green-false, they converse divers of the variances in man of snow, sand, and dirt, till the child explodes.
The wanderer goes, discholered, after asking the death throes and intestines of the exposition clandestine.