[The minefield is still present, always, beneath it all, but the claymores are easier to avoid some days. On others, the dust covering them is so fine, he can't help but stumble into one after the other. Today, he's lucky it's the former. Bits of the story play out unimpeded at first, the writer--- a blonde-haired fellow, thin and twiggy bearing a strong resemblence to another certain blonde--- and the amnesiac--- dark-haired, blank-eyed, and unintentionally causing pain every time he opens his mouth--- talk on a hillside. Illuminated by fireflies, they consider the immortality of a memory, or the writer's memory, at least. Then they sit side by side in a sterile waiting room, the blonde hunched over and wheezing.
But after that? The scenes skip and buzz and distort, interrupted by scattered blinks of gore and screams. No, those weren't part of the story. Like a tape rewound and played at random intervals, the images make no inherent sense.
He used to know. He remembers he cried at the end.
A man in a bloodied suit begged on his knees for his life.]
no subject
But after that? The scenes skip and buzz and distort, interrupted by scattered blinks of gore and screams. No, those weren't part of the story. Like a tape rewound and played at random intervals, the images make no inherent sense.
He used to know. He remembers he cried at the end.
A man in a bloodied suit begged on his knees for his life.]