Through the window of a two story building I see trees. Beyond those trees is a world I'm not comfortable in. There are wolves and giants and humans more ferocious than any colony of vampires. If I went out there into the great beyond, I might be swallowed up in the abyss of Dorothy's tornado. Some poor wretch smelling reality said there was a new world to to conquer which was better than any front porch with old folks. This same wretch gave into the fantasy of creating fantasy.
Black castles of metal and iron tower in front of me and guardians of children wander with fear etched along their brows. A weak sun struggles, choking on storm clouds. A collaborative tune of despair is being hummed and I can feel it's low vibrations hitting the windows of buildings, rocking their foundations. Gigantic streams of gray coat the underbelly of every straggler in the street who weren't looking hard enough when their ship came in. I am as scared as the next person to be alone. A once respected old man sits in the gutter, smelling strongly of rubbish. He averts his eyes as his hands beckon for money but I am suddenly preoccupied with a statue a couple of yards ahead of me. It was dedicated as the remarkable symbol of the anti-established peace our valley had established. I have no money. Dead fish pollute the canal and flavor the air.
Hurting at this world I have sojourned to, I realize.
That night, I move the keyboard in time to my pulse- a kid at recess. I need to build on wolves and giants and humans more ferocious than any colony of vampires. I salivate at the fantasy of creating fantasy.
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