Half way through the fight with infamy and a battle-torn soldier emerges from the depths of the ashes. No more than an eighth of his once perfect figure was left dangling off his living corpse, a tad away from joining the rest in shame and regret. A mistake made too late and too wrong, a death too quick and too painful, a memory too distinct and yet too disturbing to retain. Long gone the days of admin, feet soaring through the airs as they elevate themselves, pitched on top of the table where duties are disseminated to the underlings. Today, we have been demoted back to hardcore warriors, thrown back into war and chaos without any crash courses or briefings, a fish out on land slowly learning his impending death. It's either now or never, but the formal always remains to be the best option, and I will grasp it. For as long as I endure the bleaching rains of hell, I will shout with my voice to keep the sanctuary's gate wide open, ready to receive me back like the prodigal son.
I suddenly took a stroke of inspiration and have this strong inkling to pick up guitar. Always been on my subconscious to reignite my musical knowledge. Only need to find appropriate partners to go with.
Dreams swallow me, but at least I die in utopia.
