Still still ill

The canopy shielded me from being drenched by the little drizzles from the French sky, closer than I could be to hoping that it would wash the selfsame scars. Limping like a little bitch even with a cane on, and the hand that holds it now sparkles with copper that it was made of. A tiny bench of whoop-dee-doo to sleep on before the sun arrives, giving me enough room to think of where next to be, yet all that came after where pocket nightmares of fast-forwards. Next was the worst of the bunch.

Tenements of Soviet build, targeted by Soviet arms, of ever frightful heights and hopeless goings-on. Not a prim way to exist by any means. Yet there I am wishing I was never there. But I had to, because it was the only thing grounding me to the earth. The feeling of death just outside the window, always disappointing, and not the ways one thought, for I was hoping it be my penance then and there.

Then we collide, back to scorched earth once again. Race to another fucking moot goal. Michelin dreams and broken spirits. Never seem to end. Just as I was able to accomplish something resembling a coherent thought, the rude awakening of being stripped of everything that have ever come before and calling it their own, their success, more's the pity.

Zakhar is however home. Ani is however home. Everything else is white noise.