Everything I see is bathed in glorious shades of red and orange, as if the world has grown tired of carrying the weight of a thousand colours and reinvented itself thus. The yellow orange waters of a mighty river tumble down from the red snow capped mountains yonder. Blood red forests loom on the foothills, nearer me, descending into the tall, orange, wildly swaying grass by the riverside, that dissolve, change shape and return with every motion of my eyelids, manipulated, beyond doubt, by the slightest tilt of the eyelashes.
There are other, strange, fantastic shapes on my side of the river. Shapes I’ve never witnessed before, and yet, not out of place. They are born within my eye; created by its unbounded imagination, shorn of its duty to see that which the mind comprehends. It is not my mind's eye. It is my eye without it's mind.
The mike screeches. My eyes turn towards the speaker. The vision vanishes. The speaker taps it twice, in disgust, and resumes speaking.
I look up and behind me towards the yellow bulb on the ceiling and smile. Then I turn around, toward the speaker, and focus again into the tiny yellow speck of the bulb’s reflection in the upper corner of the glass on the left of my specs and recommence my vision.