The opening chapter in a long line of chapters was small and long at the same time. The war was there and everybody knew it. It wasn’t hard to see from the smoke fog that grew down the yards and over the fields. The sun was rising earlier and there was no longer a sky as such, but a haze of near grey fog that grew with every passing day. And there it rested. And here we are. Standing on the right side of the moon, marble white beneath its incandescent trail. The trail of a thin dog on the feathers of snowflakes down the road. Fading wisps of love linger in the middle of the air, left behind companions of the forests. Gilded memories told to be silent in the furore of the candle like dispute. Vulnerable, fragile, worn out and run down. Empty hollows found beneath the logs next to pieces of broken glass and torn up metal sheets. Pavements are awkwardly scattered from left to right and the kerbs are balancing at unsettled angles. Love is lying in the street, looking a thousand miles in the opposite direction. Heavy memories refuse to lie low. The restless hunger that creeps around everybody’s eyes. People taking sides. The night falls low and heavy. The streets are sedated and the doors are slammed shut. Make one last glance, make one last gaze. Feelings of no good come rolling down to stare at me. Paths separate and depart to all things. Openings become closings.

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