by Nostalgia


In the dream he falls heavily, metal hot and tearing against his flesh.

He is in the field, a field, this field. It is mud and smoke and crushed up poppies sinking into tank tracks. He coughs lung.

In the dream, there might be a reason, but he never finds it. He lies in mud and when his open he knows that he will be lying in sweat and his heart will be racing back to alive.

He wishes he was home, far from the Earth.

Scarlet flows from the blackness in his wounds.

In the dream he always dies.



In the mirror he watches metal tear away dead tissue. Night and terror have been rubbed from his eyes and he feels...

He feels lucky.

He thinks of now and then and wishes he could hope. Once again he hates his pessimism.

Infinite night reflects behind him, the walls vibrate silently as he moves gradually further away from history. He will live a long and happy life and he will never truly be alone. Flowers will make him smile in his old age.

He thinks of open fields.

The razor slips, and a crimson cut sears the past upon him.



In the memory he fidgets with his cuffs. The minute lasts forever.

He stands bored and unaffected by the silence around him. He feels hungry. Nothing here has any meaning for him, everything is abstract.

He gazes at red against stone, spotted black and lifeless.

The child feels conspicuous; forced into a diminishing number by virtue of family tradition. Time is the greatest healer.

The urge to cough or sneeze or something builds up as the seconds tick by. The lack of sound oppresses him. His leg itches.

He wonders why he is here.



In the starlight, his eyes glisten.


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