Time becomes meaningless, in this place without change. Hope moves out of reach and light fades from the world. Only flame illuminate the devastation of our future. Behind it all we hear the quiet, mocking, laughter of those that won. Those that took our power and our freedoms.
A short story, a message to myself, found again by accident. Written a year ago. It is a message of hope, written in an uncertain time.
The second weekend of February. Clothed in red and white, it is a pretender. It claims to be the herald of romance, but it is not. It is, instead, the harbinger of emotional torture.
Sheltering at home from the storm, I think back to the night before.
Facing down the bad weather. Doable, but tough. Glad I'm back at the hab. But that's about all I can think.