Certainly war meant dying, but it always shifted the ground beneath a person's feet when it was someone who had once lived and breathed in close proximity.
Certainly war meant dying, but it always shifted the ground beneath a person's feet when it was someone who had once lived and breathed in close proximity.
Death waits for no man - and if he does, he doesn't usually wait for very long.
So many humans. So many colours. They keep triggering inside me. They harass my memory. I see them tall in their heaps, all mounted on top of each other. There is air like plastic, a horizon like setting glue. There are skies manufactured by people, punctured and leaking, and there are soft, coal-coloured clouds, beating, like black hearts. And then. There is death. Making his way through all of it. On the surface: unflappable, unwavering. Below: unnerved, untied, and undone.
The idea that he is haunted by what humans do I just loved that irony because we are all so afraid of dying. Originally, he was a very different voice. He was supercilious. He was enjoying his work too much and he would say creepy things, which is the obvious.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories