Dispatches #14: Broken — My Heart

You know – sometimes I arrive in several hours. Sometimes within several days. In this place the firm plan is something hard to follow. But there is one thing which is constant: my beloved Fanta will always wait for me when I come home. I have rescued my beloved cherub from Black Angels so that she should be absent in city. At the moment, yes, she is of this world. But, she really should not be in this world. She – a thin flower who wilts from strong beams of the sun. She will not be wounded, and I shall not allow her to die. She – my blossom of a greenhouse.

Dispatches #13: The Hunter — The Pursued

There are various ways to survive. In some days you pass into ruins and go through dust. In some days you go to the market and barter. You go some days to Kopeth and do business which you do not wish to make. You ask for some things. You take some things. Sometimes you should kill to take what you require.

Dispatches #12: The End — Amen

Today I have entered into the house. A backward entrance I slide through. There is the silence arriving after severe stink of death. Into kitchen. Into passage. Through a doorway. Into . . . a stream. Into the plan. Into a brain. Feeling despair. To survive? The request to find the rabbit hole downwards to similarity lobotomized judiciousness. You knows: that aperture.

Dispatches #11: The Father — It Speaks

The  father speaks: Anyone should fulfill much prophecy to survive. The real person, the good person, will make even more than that to allow the family to prosper. That I studied to do; that the father learned me to do. It—one thousand ways to hurt. One thousand ways to finish a life. One thousand plus one more way to be last person upright.

When I was the certain age there was a place the father has taken me. A place where the father teaches the boy how to be the father. The high building, the broken windows, the dark blue painful dark blue sky. Dead plastic trees with wide leaves which the father has told belonged more on isle of pale dirt granules. Wide branches now the soiled brown color with dirt of our world. I have taken my lesson: the broken cheekbones, black eyes, poignant lips, seeping voice hole. Any tears? Ha! Not that.

Dispatches #10: True Love — The True Life

How I can tell to you, how much I love my beloved Fanta? Without it, my world does not do, would not exist. Its gentle contact. Its sweet voice. Its kind understanding. When I come home after firm day on work its sweet tenderness wipes away cares and difficulty of day. It—light of my day. She—queen of my night. Its eyes study mine and there is no need for words. We speak in unexpressed language, each other, smoothly. Regardless the facts that happen up there in daylight, above the ground, in the hidey hole to each other, we create our own world which never can be separated by anybody. Ever.