Explosion of color. Soft-lined, regular shapes. Repeated organic patterns, burst in all directions. They overlapped to form force-fitting tessellations before her eyes: a wash of conflicting palettes, blue-violet-green-blue. Always blue. (Life, in essence, was azure.) A geometric sequence of organic configurations, imitation and genuine; flung out in a ll directions. Those shapes could have been bodies, limbs; stones, bricks. She was careful not to look to closely. Explosion of color. Blue—all was blue: [aquamarine, azuline, cobalt.] she was drowning in it, but for the sick-yellow chemical starbursts, superimposed, back lighting, casting harsh shadows. It burnt away the pale sapphire of her world as she'd known it. No matter. Soon, it would all be grey. Then they could begin anew—rise from the ashes. Explosion, confusion, of confliction colors and shapes, firm and curved lines, segmenting chunks like a shoreline, like the craters of a moon. They did not move with a force of their own: they were blown, torn apart, asunder, made to fit in new ways. The old ruts, comfortable configurations, were stagnant, diseased; too much so to even mark their own decay. They must be remade, to fit together again all-inclusively. She would make them fit.
The sound of the blast caught up with her in real-time too late, crushing down after the retort of the explosion. A tsunami of pressure and sound. The explosion deafened, drowned. The screams of panic—if there were any—did not reach her yet, smothered. Explosion of color, battery of sound, a boom that went deeper than carbon-fiber core. Standing alone before the wreckage, the ruin, buffeted by the reprocussive wind, the concussion of sound—her eyes were bombarded by the explosion of color, a cosmic masterpiece. Her paints were mortar and stone and chemical flame. She believed in the cause she fought for. But blinded by the awful creation/destruction, it was too easy to forget that—to forget everything. To forget even that she had forgotten. There was only color and sound. It made her forget that she was probably mad, and too sane to care. There was only color and sound. Bigger than she was, all-consuming.
She alone stood like a figurehead in front of the beautiful terror, wispy garments whipped and plastered by schizophrenic turns, she regarded this terrible child she had made with conviction and desperation and fire and fear. With the roar of the explosion where no one could hear, not even herself, Zotoh Zhaan stood laughing and clapped her hands.