A deception was made of my associate before I determined that the unlikely light offered the softest translation of our failures. (I had invaded the oldest building in the territory, without a photographic understanding of the past, and had found several disfranchised, historical poets huddling together around a broken water heater, enacting a primitive, wordless play about animals and people. In the end, after several attempts at civil interruption, they could not be deterred without the fatal discharge of a firearm.
This was the city we had pronounced as our everything? This was the empire we had liberated from the savage fold of our ancestors?) Now, I'm tired of persuading dead dreams onto the pages of this register, and I'm seeking the salvation of a cleansed something other. Perhaps I'll plant a fraternal garden, illumined by the unlikeliest light, and tend it without exclusivity.