The Golden Myth
The mud is cold and heavy, sucking at your boots with a wet, viscous sound that echoes in the hollow of your chest as you push forward through the gray twilight of the field. You are not running, nor are you hiding; you are simply walking, a steady, rhythmic trudge that has become the only language your body knows after six months of standing in this desolate stretch of countryside where the...
0 Comments 0 Shares 5 Views 0 Reviews