I peer through a window

I peer through a window:

I am a strip of leather wrapped around a frame. There is, in my desolate room, a crooked aluminum chair with a steady flame burning underneath. I am sitting upon this chair, it is wobbling under my weight and the flame is burning me. I catch on fire, but I do not move. A single pen whose ink dried eons ago rests in my hands and with it I am carving illegible pin sized words upon a warped desk. There was, a moment ago, a window caked in dust, this window has been blown out by a bomb. Jagged piping protrudes from a crumbling ceiling. Fetid, rust soaked water drips onto my head. I don't care to get out of the way. More bombs explode in the distance amidst the screams and anguish of millions, clawing and dragging in desperation. Gun shots tear through the rain, they are all mowed down by a haze of bullets. The building shakes and creaks like bones shattering under an extraordinary pressure.

It begins to rain and as though facing no resistance it pierces through into my room. A sound breaks through, the lone weeping of a child trapped under rubble. Behemoth machines roll down the street, a thick fog of suffocating smoke forms behind them as they churn the ground into a fine ash. A hatch opens from it's rear and men dressed in orange exit, wielding miniature pipe organs, spraying the perimeter of every building with a reddish tar. I watched as a gray child gained consciousness, crawled out from under a pile of rubble and rolled onto this tar. As she raised herself off the ground, through some hellish concoction, large swaths of her body dripped off her bones. She felt no pain. Not the slightest tear seeped from the corners of her eyes, not the slightest frown, or the remotest glimmer of understanding that her life had evaded her. Every ounce of flesh and bodily matter flushed out like a bucket of water flipped upside down. There is an eerie silence, as though sitting in the middle of a vast auditorium.
I peer through a window:

Before me I see a vast expanse of pristine green fields, surrounded by rolling hills leading to snow capped mountains wrapped with a blanket of rich evergreens and spruce. A crystalline lake in the middle glimmering in the gentle twilight of spring. Seas of life abound, of every shape and every kind. A gentle mist rolls down from the mountain side -- nourishing everything it's wake. My pad is my mind and my pen is my thoughts. I am a blade of grass, alone, perched upon the summit of the world.