My fingers are smeared with the grease of caseless ammunition. I guide them-- by touch-- into my automatic carbine, a round at a time. Each bullet carved with a subjective truth.
I pull my hood over my head to shield my eyes from the moon and acid fog. I stride with purpose across a field of wet thistles. Every journey through the brambles is a favor curried for a hundred people. A gesture that they'll never know I carried out. Like an execution sentence.
9:21 p.m. - 2015-05-07
Recent entries:
Tossi Propter - 2018-07-02
Summerscorch - 2018-07-02
Heartdesert - 2018-06-25
Elliptical - 2018-06-25
Back and Callback - 2018-06-18
My profile
Archives
Notes
Diaryland
Random
RSS
others:
As-I-know-it
Nicim
Breathe-Salt
Swordfern
Star-Brite
Swallowthkey
ATwoWayDream
HumHum
Secret-motel
AndWeBreathe
MovingSands
WeAteTheSea