Vortex
2003-04-03 | 2:30 p.m.

A thin line of warm sweat runs down my nose and drips to the ground, like wine, in the deep vermillion glow of the setting sun. I look into the distance, a mass grave of fallen soldiers lies before me. All the flesh has been eaten by birds of the air, all the blood drunk by wild dogs, and all the marrow sucked dry by beasts of the earth. All that is left is a valley or porcelain.

A cry out in anguish. A cry in the desert from my own lips. A cry in the dusk of man. The site of death that begat death for the sake of life, fleeting life, often eluding its pursuer.

And the sun sets on the fate of man as the sky mimics my lamentation. Lightning dances across the valley, and dense fog begins to rise up from the bones, rolling toward me.

The air thickens with a pungent odor; a green haze forms a shroud about me. The encroaching storm intensifies with lightning beating the earth as a drum of war. The expanse before me begins to undulate. The land seems to shift and spin. A sharp pain through my gut draws my attention to the glowing edge of a bloody sword. I cannot see its owner. A dark merlot runs onto the ground, mixing with the dust, and sprouting an army. The land before me has now become an ebony vortex, swirling with lightning, drawing in my pain. The army of dust and blood marches forth, heeding its call. And they all go marching, flowing, down, into the ground, from me.

At this, I light a candle and leave the bathroom to the sound of a flushing toilet.

*wink*

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