on the chairs. Tiger claws defensive, hiding a mistake of character that was never meant mountain with no liftings like the salt in the seas. The taste, bitter, salty, I find perplexing soldiers who march for long periods in underground tunnels burrowed by the animals. Tunnels, cartoon graphics, dark -- barely a light at each interval to help them find their way through, the lights that were put there with human hands, quickly. No path arrows, just an instinct and one narrow walkway. Silhouettes on the rough edged walls and celings and trappings to perhaps die in, wake and find no where else to go. At the dead end -- it does end somewhere -- and to wake and be where that is. Perhaps alone. The other soldiers have long died. No one turns to you, you can't turn to them. They aren't there when you raise your hand to speak. Their ears don't work anymore, their corpse lay before you. There is nothing else to look at except them. The walls have caved in, so there is no where to hide them away from sight. You're there, they're there. It seems like a certain fate is evident for you also. Why should you be different from the other soldiers who cast their grievances to the dirt on the ground. A players wheel handed down, with them to decay, and no escape. 

 

        Sitting; thinking about the soldiers lives, what they must have been like, what events brought them to this? What did it feel like to die? Sitting there, hands on knees, remaking them and remarking how each one's face reflects a certain idea -- the last thought that was uttered. A dense summation with no apparent deluges to worry about. Dead fish surround your feet. There is a moving concentration. To go in thought. To seep into the dirt with the other soldiers.