Harvest, blood, blue, and pink are all variants of me. When I'm full, what ensues is nothing short of insanity.

Tiny specks small as sand made of skin hair and strands, Floating around clumping up, beneath your furniture and on your shelves. What am i?

I am a garden of rest and sorrow, Where yesterday meets no tomorrow. I am where roses bloom among decaying stone, Where the echoes of the departed roam.

I can brighten a photograph or brighten a stormy sky. Either way, I’m gone almost immediately.

A mode of transport, favoured at night by a cult following, swept up at the awards, probably