A gold-plated star dangled in the air, swaying lazily before his tired eyes.
He stirred, his eyelids peeling back with a sluggish, crusty resistance. A crushing weight sat upon his chest, pinning him into the mattress like a specimen under a glass. As his vision cleared, he realized the room was round. Too round. He had always loathed the lack of corners.
And the walls, they were a stark, sterile white.
He hated white. It was the color of bone, of salt, of the shroud. He wanted yellow. He wanted the warm, golden hue of harvest and sun.
"Yellow... make it... yellow..." he croaked, his voice sounding like two dry stones grinding together.
A second later, the silence of the tent was shattered by a sudden cacophony. The space was crowded with faces, too many faces, and his ears were instantly flooded with the roar of voices.
