The Distant Nightmare
The rain does not fall so much as it seeps, a cold, grey mist that clings to the wool of your tunic and settles into the marrow of your bones, blurring the line between the muddy trench and the sky above, a sky that has forgotten how to be blue and now wears the color of old bruises, the color of the iron that binds you to this place. You are not a soldier in the way the maps are drawn, not a...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 2 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen