It’s a crescent moon tonight. Or is it? I see a tinge of white-yellow peeking out in the canopy.
I’m seated on the bonnet of a March at the car-park; and peeling an apple between intervals of sipping overpriced coffee in a can of Java’s. I know; who peels apples? Well, me. Water dribbles off the overflow outlet of the already full tanks, foaming beautiful white froth at the pool collecting on the ground. I’m trying to prove that I’m so alert. This’ better than pinching myself….
By the way, the guards are ‘dead’ in their dark long coats. That’s what we pay them for anyway. To die.
But there’s something I don’t understand. I’ve been here for the past hour and my mind had wandered far off into the fate of beasts in the woods.
Let’s stop making it sound cool. I mean, a wild grey hound has been chasing some brown fat hare in my head for the past one hour. Right past the trees, through the tunnels, over the anthills, over the rivers and against the winds.