APPLAUSE
Volume 25
APPLAUSE Volume 25 University of Arkansas Fort Smith 2015
APPLAUSE is the literary journal of the University of Arkansas Fort Smith. Applause publishes student work annually. VOLUME 25 Editor: Colby Post Assistant Editor: Jessica Epperson Managing Editor: Liz Harms Assistant Managing Editor: Laken Emerson Events Coordinator: Cheyenne Fletcher Fundraising Coordinator: Christina Lovell Faculty Advisors: Dr. Christian Anton Gerard, Dr. Carol Westcamp APPLAUSE receives support from Dr. Paul Beran, Chancellor; Dr. Ray Wallace, Provost; Dr. Joe Hardin, Dean of the College of Languages and Communications; the Student Activities Organization; and the departments of English and Rhetoric and Writing. COVER PHOTO: Jessica Epperson A Foggy Path in Pine Ridge
CONTENTS Cheyenne Blake
Vibrant Allies
POETRY 1
C. W. Post Harvest Time Disguised as a Love Poem
2
Damien Irwin Bird in Snow Evaporating
3
Laken Emerson Of Star Stuff
4
Nikolle Dixon Solace
5
Jessica Epperson A Calm Within the Storm
6
Damien Irwin Field Crickets in the Coming Night
7
James Charles Riddle I Ate My Breath and You Laughed at Me
9
Darcy Parker Rubber Souls
10
Liz Harms The Cicadas’ Song
11
C. W. Post Medium Owl
13
Damien Irwin Nights After the Preacher Went
15
Laken Emerson “Paper cranes don’t fly, my dear,”
16
Jessica Epperson Bird of Paradise
17
Darcy Parker The Defeat of Victory
19
Damien Irwin In Church
20
Christopher Ha Hope Not Gentle
21
Damien Irwin Children
23
Amanda Corbin Sunshowers
24
Darcy Parker To Kill a Man
FICTION 26
Rebekah Stamps Claire
30
Damien Irwin Toby and Dad
32
Nick Bolin Katja
POETRY Christopher Ha
DAYDREAM DIALOGUE
Harvest Time Disguised as a Love Poem In July she wore a sundress on a day when there were only clouds, watched a game of baseball. She said, “I’ll be your sleep-heart, if you’ll be my scare-crow.” In August she competed for gazes with the classroom clock. They walked together and laughed about how shitty the apricots looked in their truck beds. In September she left the nothing noise for the city sounds. He had just gotten comfortable driving her car. Her name was already printed on the office door that he would never see. She was then an oil spot on the parking lot that he will never see. He is left with the clock, the apricots, and the way Autumn cools the wind. He looks over the spot where he first saw her, rubs the palm sweat onto his pants and thinks how strange it feels to wear jeans again.
1
POETRY
C. W. Post
Bird in Snow Evaporating
Damien Irwin
Outside the breath is budding tree branch Steaming mouth at March’s last snow Warmth didn’t blow from the west this year From the root to the bough to the air Electric buzzing ground light as a birthing wasp Sweatered feet sting and the knees’ heat The grass aches but the sidewalkers bought coffee Milling the Christmas roast The lungs are silent Still cold
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Of Star Stuff The tiniest atoms who never touch are tracing the outline of every surface: the brittle leaves crunching underfoot; the coarse pages of the book you loaned me; the new strange skin I’m clothed in. How small we must be to feel these enormous things.
3
POETRY
Laken Emerson
Solace
Nikolle Dixon
If you ask me how my day is, I might stare at you with my mouth partially open because I must have forgotten that I’m supposed to feel a way about a day. If you pluck a yellow flower from the ground and place it in my hand, forgive me if I don’t say thank you or peck you on the cheek, because I have lost appreciation for beautiful things. I can’t find solace in the stars when you live in them, and I can’t be happy when I feel like I have no reason to live, but please don’t remind me how I’m drowning and wearing thin. I’ve been pushed into the deep end. I was never taught to swim.
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A Calm Within the Storm It was hung by the mantle on the wood paneled wall, pleading its heart for a washing of some kind, wafting back and forth sending a smell of age. His eyes were sunken and his chin leathered, and he beckoned with agony whispering shame. Our relationship putrid with relentless vouloir. A rekindling of sorts led me to dream of you to simply try once more with faint enthusiasm. Our timeline had been broken, shaken by the storm. The washing rain raging against the walls seeping into the decadent lavender in our sheets. Heirlooms tucked neatly into wilted brown boxes, I stow away what pieces Mara had left of you. Vehement passion indoctrinated in our youth is quickly swallowed in one fell swoop of the tongue. Bellow in the pits, soft coagulated cheese, contrition would be a quick prick of the pinnacle. A steeple used to ring with furious compassion, that used to strangle such insipid desires of rancor. The steel leaving a metallic resin in the grooves clutching to a time that once left us with ease.
5
POETRY
Jessica Epperson
Field Crickets in the Coming Night
Damien Irwin
Light splits the mountain just beyond. Equidistant, the veils meet revealing two opposing shades. Above is blond autumn conceived in the sun-kissed tips of trees. Beneath is fertile and prudent with a deep billowing green. The outsider only just landed, eyes crusted, feet bare and uncalloused skin sallow and washed, searches for kindness in the coming nocturne. Red hawks sever blue/grey above the peak according to no god, wind bites dusk or dawn, but lovers in high weeds work the clicks in their wings chording continual songs before night. They sing as he sings. The call is urgent for them lonely as the night can be so far from the compassionate soft belly of a woman.
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I Ate My Breath and You Laughed at Me We lived in the time of angels what we thought were angels actually humans with halos stapled to their skulls. You baked some bread, I buttered it; spread some jam. “What a way to live” in the past stones in our eyes eucalyptus trees green grass. “I’m a monster” always lying to touch your skin, un my fingers down your neck undress sun’s heat.
7
POETRY
James Charles Riddle
God should not live where we feel we can not kick him out. Into the picnic basket past the briarbush, I would waltz to the cathedral with you.
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Darcy Parker
Rubber Souls The color you once had faded Your laces stretched and thin Your toe and heel scuffed Oh, to be new once again! To taste a summer rain Or beat against the earth To feel a rock wedged
between the tread
Into your cardboard coffin, no holes for you! Suffocate and rot like we all do Buried in the closet of forgotten things
9
POETRY
The Cicadas’ Song
Liz Harms
The dirge of green dusk rings, source concealed, disguised on wooden armor. Battle cries attack the creeping darkness. They wield their sworded noses. Shrill cicadas’ prize: the blood is seized fare sucked from frozen veins, infiltrates the sticky southern night, this trill of Plagues’ sly warriors remains, branded on ears. Vocal witness of fights against defenseless oaks, the prey to prey; their sweet syrup the muse to screeching hymns. The vespers shattered against nightly raids when sinister songs signal savage sins. Against advice from nature’s mouth, she sleeps, lulled peacefully to dreams where freedom keeps.
APPLAUSE 10
Medium Owl Adjacent the oven where the candy lives. Never noticed the size of its eyes, or the color. Like yours that night, Wide Eyes. Like yours that night you ate mushrooms and forgot how to sleep, so you crept toward your mother’s room to watch her and remember. On your way, you saw you and her in a French photograph. Then you realized why you dream in landscape orientation. Grasped found photo scrunched face of remembered mother, touched fire to it. Tossed it onto her empty bed.
11
POETRY
C. W. Post
Like your mother with the scrunched face and the four hundred fifty-one degrees of heat, la photo est mort. Behind the flames, your mind rolled. Psilocybin melted inside the ceramic animal. All the days of your youth pressed into one square of chocolate. And the owl stood proudly on the counter top. It’s eyes wide—dark, right in the middle and full of sweets.
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Nights After the Preacher Went
Damien Irwin
I. In recurring dreams of wax figurines in downtown Stilwell. An old man leads me through wet, dark, damp, streets Of cobblestone by woolen petticoats with top hats and mustaches. On bicycle, wet beneath thunderous rain A museum in the old center of the city. We enter. II. A museum like my mother’s house Beneath the window is that river I saw in adolescent visions of Freedom. Where boats dock and undock And sailors eat and drink at dockside III. A bright man with brown face dances in and out of walls with my mothers Great aunts and uncles like tapestry moving with the heavy river breeze The fabric of my memories, I am unable to address this company They are ground, the air and filtered light for my dreams
13 POETRY
IV. The old man is the only thing with edges Leaning against a bleeding wall, Smiling from physically wise eyes, Composing a pain stricken mouth. “May we go old man?” I ask him. “You want to go? Go to your spirit.” he declines. “What spirit? They are solid walls!” V. I have displeased him. I recognize him now. My minister, your head swims. He mumbles, “It is done very often now. Wax figurine rows line the clear river. Who can be with them, the willing under water?” VI. My minister is very near me now. He speaks of watery soldiers fears drowning in wax corpse rank. He speaks of scuba gear and on and on. His edges go loose. He holds the sides of his head with open hands in white hair. His granddaughter ostends from eyes around the flaking room. She says, “He’s going into his head again,” and holds his waist. He skeleton falls onto the floor, always holding his own head. He empties. VII. He becomes younger and younger and cries, “Forget the wax figurines! I am.” I wake.
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“Paper cranes don’t fly, my dear,” you said. Your empty whiskey glass sat beside my own locked jar of captive fireflies. Their reflections told me what you really said: we are nothing more than what we have. These origami birds perched static on the desk, guardians of the locked jar and empty glass —or are they just observing? I unfolded the closest one and inscribed the creases with your second-hand courtesies you won’t be using anyway.
15 POETRY
Laken Emerson
Bird of Paradise
Jessica Epperson
A sunbird dances on my fingertips My nails like lemon slice point her in the direction She raises her scarlet throat to the clouds My arms act as runway for her playful flight Without a passing thought, she sustains me.
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The Defeat of Victory The bodies, They lie. About the once grassy mounds Now turned red and black. The hearts of men poured Onto the fields of greed. Their blackened souls scream Against the silent wind. The lost heroes frozen With expressions of fear. Pictures of their loved ones Wrinkled in their blood-stained hands. Their fingers smudged From their muskets. Sparks of fire against The darkening skies. In the distance A resounding boom. Flags that once sung with the winds Now droop with the fallen men, With torn and tattered edges Stained with the dreams of tomorrow That never came to be.
17
POETRY
Darcy Parker
A loyal steed near its general To brave the approaching night. Its dark mane blows And white eyes shine against the blackness. A hand reaches for the halter But its hooves stamp As a warning to the thieves. Men of shadows collect The loose valuables. Flecks of color that shine with the last light. The horse argues and bellows. The thief moves on. The general’s beast remains, Sniffing of the man’s dress. The wind changes. Flags point in opposite directions. Thieves retreat into their holes. In the distance, a rumble. All goes quiet. And all goes still. The bodies, They lie.
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Damien Irwin
In Church My grandma is Ginsberg “Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy!�
19 POETRY
A prayer mat was placed over her dress When she passed out on the floor Following the aphasic tongue And a night of hallucinating
Hope Not Gentle
Christopher Ha
Why must we want the things we can’t obtain? Treasure not the things we have, hold high the very thing we cannot touch, hope is not as gentle as you may think.
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Children Ages ago when all was fair and We were worthy The pines howled Wicked spirits all twisted and angry We were there for the last of these Bursting from dandelion seeds in the day The bark of oak The screech, like sirens, of bees We were smaller then, only years ago Beneath the static of clouds, lower then than Tall grass even, our hands open and arms always stretched forth For there was no way nor where to go Only our closed eyes and the tips of fingers Brushing across blades of grass Cut by their sharpened edges We made beds in the grass Pushed them to the ground for resting upon and hiding upon And scheming All around us above our heads
21 POETRY
Damien Irwin
Remember the games we played Those things that sang and Cried from the ground And our ears that heard Before we knew better Half the world has been forgotten for nuances Of old children grown from their wonder When the whisper of wind disappears And God can’t speak but from the sky
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Sunshowers When the storm has passed show me the mirrors on the asphalt. Tell me the tapestry of water drops and white roses. They want to pry into the gutters of your mind, try to influence the currents in the stream. Everyone is an artist with the weather - but we are the gravel in the gutter and lawn, stoic and wearing. See, there are no free shelters from floods. Stunted by your glamour, we remain so lost in a certain and real suffocation of self; we stand open mouthed to the rain, drowning in lightning strikes just to see the reflection of light in mud puddles. The storm has passed. Now show me.
23 POETRY
Amanda Corbin
To Kill a Man
Darcy Parker
Scales of a snake, teeth of a demon, face of a serpent, and heads numbering nine. Should an enemy attack and sever a head, two grow instead. In the shadows it lurks. In the blink of an eye, attack from all sides; enemies paralyzed. Poison is quick and with its breath comes the Angel of Death.
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FICTION Christopher Ha
STASIS
Claire
Rebekah Stamps
I couldn’t process what had happened. One minute it was the miracle of birth, and I couldn’t wait to hold my newborn baby in my arms. The next I was shoved from the room without any explanation other than the orders I’d managed to partially decode on my way out. They were taking someone to the ICU. Was there something wrong with my baby? My wife? Both? They gave me no answers and I was forced to wait in the crowded room with the rest of our family. I couldn’t even tell them the gender of our child. We wanted to wait and have it be a surprise. Well, Claire did. She was always much more patient than I am. Would she be patient in a situation like this? Because I was losing my mind. My knee bounced up and down uncontrollably, my hands were shaking, and I could feel the sweat running down my forehead. No one asked what was wrong with me. It was as if they didn’t even notice. Except Claire’s mom. She watched me. But she didn’t ask me anything. She didn’t want to believe anything was wrong either. Asking… saying it out loud… it would make it too real. I watched the clock like it was my lifeline. One hour. Still no news. I swore my leg was about to bounce right off my body. One hour, six minutes. I bit my cheek so hard I tasted blood. One hour, ten minutes. I felt sweat drip down my nose like tears. Would I truly be crying when they finally came out with the news? If they ever did. One hour, eleven minutes. I swallowed a lump in my throat. Prayed desperately. Clung to my last shred of hope. One hour, twelve minutes. I watched the second had tick into position, and then slip past the one. The door opened. I wanted to breathe a sigh of relief, but the look on his face didn’t allow that. I waited to hear the news. And now, as he drew a breath, I didn’t want to hear it. All that blood. It couldn’t be good. Please just don’t say it. Don’t make it real. “Claire? What’s wrong?” Inside our two bedroom apartment, Claire was on the floor, sobbing, clutching at her flat stomach. I crouched at her side, and wrapped a supportive arm around her shoulders, but it was as if my touch set her off even more. “Talk to me, please. Tell me what’s wrong.” She shook her head, and a few of her tears hit the carpet. “I thought-” She choked on her words, and hugged herself tighter. “I thought for sure I was…” She whispered so quietly it was as if she were muttering to herself instead of talking to me.
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“You thought you were what? … Oh.” It dawned on me as soon as the words left my lips. Pregnant. She thought she was pregnant. “Honey, listen, we can keep trying-” “We’ve been trying!” Suddenly she was out of my arms and staring me down. “For three years, Chandler! Three God damn years! And nothing! We have nothing to show for it!” “Claire, please, calm down.” She grit her teeth and spoke through them. “Don’t fucking tell me to calm down.” None the less her anger seemed to subside, and she sat on the little floral print couch her mother had given us. She clasped her hands together and stared at them. “What if we can’t have kids?” Her voice was substantially calmer, but also somehow hollow. As if she were trying not to feel anything at all. I looked at her and went to kneel in front of her on the floor. I took her hands in mine and kissed the back of one of them. “We will have kids. Whether they’re ours or not. We can adopt.” I shook my head. “I know it’s not the same. But they’ll still be ours. And you’re too amazing to not be a mom.” She cracked a small smile. “Claire, it’s not the end if we can’t do this traditionally. There are other ways.” I scooted forward and cupped her face in my hands, tilting her chin so she’d look at me. “But we’ll try again. One last time. And if it doesn’t work, we’ll find another way. Okay?” “Okay,” she agreed. “One last time.” Claire was ecstatic when their one last time turned into a real baby. She read all the books, she took every precaution, she did everything the right way. She was always an hour early for doctor’s appointments, she took her supplements like they were an addiction. And I never would have thought I’d see someone so happy to have morning sickness. She wrote a list of names a mile long. Eventually she decided on Benjamin for a boy, or Lucille for a girl. Lucille was her late grandmothers name, and when I asked her why Benjamin, she told me she didn’t have a reason. She just loved the name. She hand painted little pictures and decorations on the nursery room walls. She picked out a crib and a car seat and she had little clothes stored up for until the baby was nine months old. All in yellow.
27 FICTION
She was more excited for this baby then I’d seen her in a long time. As a matter of fact I hadn’t seen her that happy since our wedding day. Claire was going to be the world’s best mom. Caring, nurturing, patient, kind, and always prepared for anything. As for me… I was trying my best to follow in Claire’s footsteps. I tried to learn what to do and what not to do. But in all honesty I was depending on her to do the important stuff. Me, I could have change diapers and rocked it to sleep. That’s all I felt comfortable doing. Anything else I was afraid of messing up. It scared me to death, to hold a life in my arms. I tried to hold it together. I tried to keep my composure. But when they placed that fussy little baby in my arms, bundled up in blue, I lost it. Claire was gone. She would never get to put her new found knowledge to use. She wouldn’t get to take the baby home for the first time. She’d miss the first time he laughed. She’d miss his first word. She’d miss his first steps. She’d miss everything. She never even got to see him. The doctor said she faded quickly. That they’d done everything they could. I wanted to scream. I wanted to wake up tomorrow and have it all be a dream. To wake up to my beautiful wife with her beautiful round belly. I wanted to forget all of it. I almost couldn’t stand to look at the little wrinkled newborn in my arms. Knowing that it should be her. Knowing that she should have held him first. She would have smiled at me, her beautiful, proud smile. She would have looked at him, and she would have whispered, “We did it.” I couldn’t do this without her. I felt a tear drop off the end of my nose, and watched it soak into the blue blanket. But I knew I had to. The baby grasped his little hand around my index finger. As if he were trying to console me. I tried to smile at him, knowing he couldn’t see me yet. He hadn’t opened his eyes yet. I hoped they were blue, like the Mediterranean Sea. Like Claire’s. I closed my eyes and pictured this moment as if Claire were in it. I watched her smile and laugh. I heard her say; “He looks like you. Little Benjamin.” And I imagined I joked back. “He looks like an alien.” “Shut up, he does not.” “I’m kidding. He’s beautiful, sweetheart.”
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Claire couldn’t wipe the smile from her face. “And he’s ours. We have a son.” I nodded, and reached out to take her hand. “We did it.” I whispered the last words out loud. “We did it, Claire.”
29 FICTION
Toby and Dad
Damien Irwin
Toby would purse his lips when arriving home after school. That was what dad did when he came home tired after a long day at work, and right before he snuck into Alice’s room in the evening after his whisky. Toby was excited to be home with his father this weekend. They had been planning some father and son bonding time, and dad said, since Toby was nine now, that there would be a special treat for him when he got back from visiting mommy. Toby cracked open the front door. He made sure his lips were positioned just so; angry and tired looking, he stepped into the kitchen imagining that there would be some sort of party, maybe some balloons or a cake. It wasn’t his birthday, but dad knew he liked cake. But the kitchen was empty; the only sound in the house came from the den, where daddy watched the game. Toby was disappointed, but he kept his lips pursed and continued to dad’s recliner expecting a surprise. Dad slouched in his chair with an opened bottle of whiskey on the end table along with a single unopened bottle of beer. “Son! You made it home just in time, the game is almost finished. Since you are nine now, I thought it would be nice if we had a little drink together, just father and son.” Toby hesitated for a minute. He thought about the face dad made after taking his shots, and wasn’t sure that he would like it. “I don’t think I like whiskey,” he said. “No, No Toby, I didn’t think you would! Not yet. That’s why I bought this beer for you; to get you started. If you start young with just this one beer, maybe you won’t be irresponsible when you come of age. Experience makes the difference boy!” Dad opened the bottle and gave it to Toby, signaling with his hands that he wanted him to drink. The beer was non-alcoholic, but Toby didn’t bother to read the label. He didn’t want his dad to be disappointed. He sipped the beer, and although he really disliked the taste, he smiled and sat next to his father on the couch to finish the beer and the rest of the game. It was a happy day for Toby. He slouched his back in the couch, and yelled at the TV when his dad got upset at the game. “Dad would never give Alice a beer, even though she is older,” he thought to himself. Eventually, dad drank enough whisky to be slurring his words, and Toby knew he would be sent to
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bed soon. He was never allowed to stay up too long when dad was drinking. Toby decided to send himself to bed so he wouldn’t have to be told what to do. “I am gonna hit the hay, dad!” “Good son,” there was a short nod and reply. Toby leaned against the wall and pursed his lips as he climbed the stairs. He had seen his dad climb the stairs like this after drinking, while peeking out of his bedroom door late at night. Toby felt drunk, and thought about how dad couldn’t walk properly after his whisky. He pretended to stumble a few times before passing Alice’s room. He thought about his dad going into Alice’s room on those late drunken nights. Toby would listen from the partly opened door of his bedroom. Alice was usually quiet, (she had been that way since dad got custody) but she would whine when her door was opened in the late night. She would tell her dad “no!” which is something Toby could never do. “Alice is so spoiled,” he murmured before continuing into his bedroom. Later that night, Toby heard rustling from the den, and he crept near his door to watch his dad climb the stairs. Dad leaned against the wall on the way up and pursed his lips just like Toby expected. When he got to the hallway right outside Alice’s room, Toby saw that his father was excited, as usual. Dad used his hands to adjust his fly and began to play with himself beneath his pants. Alice whined when he opened the door. Toby smiled and thought, “She is such a crybaby.” After a short time, Alice’s whining and protesting quieted. Toby heard a consistent muffled whimper, like into a pillow. He thought about Alice, and wondered if she suffered. He felt guilty as he quietly pushed his door slightly more open. He wondered if his mom would ever move back in, and he considered how it would affect his relationship with dad. Sitting quietly, looking intently at Alice’s bedroom door and listening to the sounds inside, Toby began to adjust his fly, and he played with himself beneath his pants.
31 FICTION
Katja
Nick Bolin
I could feel myself going crazy, like my little brain was breeding some horrible sickness that was creeping, worming its way in through my frontal lobe, slinking and bumping to the beat of Ammon’s horn and writhing oh so gently, down, down the path to my vertebral column with every second that passed in that empty train car. I felt profoundly oblong, oblongata, as if I was being stretched across the four hundred miles between Berlin and Cologne and couldn’t bring myself to snap. I hated myself in that moment. I hated the girl in the black mirror of night, greased hair tied atop her head, lips plump and set in a permanent frown, eyes dull and colorless. She was falling away and I hated her for being so weak, so fucking stupid, but I hated Isaak even more for dragging me down with him. I hated my own blood. And I couldn’t sit still. The rucksack Isaak had left me with was watching me from its place on the floor. I wasn’t allowed to open it until I was back in Cologne, where it was “safe”. Isaak had said that if anyone, anyone saw what was inside, well, that would be the end of us. Dead, gone, tot. That one made me scream with laughter. Fear was but a memory. Besides, I was alone. No one had come into my car the entire trip, not a soul. It was insufferable. I felt like I had been admitted to a cross-country insane asylum. Nuts on Wheels, featuring yours truly, Katja Krause. I wanted to cast myself out into the freezing night, but I figured that would be a worse death than what Isaak had promised. Instead I pressed my face up against the cold window glass and made a fog with my breath. My face tingled. I tried to paint the emptiness of the night with what I thought could be a frozen German countryside; a distant pine tree line, naked and shivering like the ghosts of the pasture, with millions of glittering jewels held high above a shimmering bed of fresh snow. But with no moon left in the sky that lonely night even the snow was black. Blacker than death itself. I was rushing through time and space with no sense of the outside world and not one person to keep me company. I was put on a train against my will and left to my own devices, and yet I was a prisoner riding the bullet to hell. My sanity was on a short leash and the constant muffled roar of the speeding locomotive was enough to induce a neurosis in my all-too-active imagination. So I decided to look in the fucking sack.
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