Here, in this breathless now...

Swaddled in fabric, hovering on the edge of the square which forms the Bastion, the barrel of a gun raises. In the distance, a stranger walks. Four legs, moving in tandem.

Each step is placed with hesitation, as if it might be the last. And then, one is. The bundle of cloth recoils, ears ringing in harmony. The bullet flies unflinchingly.

It blossoms into a twisted metal flower, each moment hanging longer than the last. This violence will be final: it carries with it any remaining hopes of community here.

A place so soaked in violence; it is karmic that her stay here should end with her acquiescence to its ways, towards the stranger that led her here.

The bullet now seems to accelerate to a stop, pausing in the instant of impact as she watches it fragment, billowing until it encompasses the entire treeline.

The shards crystallise into a cube which surrounds the Bastion like a cage. A quick breath. She steps through. And the body drops to the floor.

Nowhere in particular, there is a ballroom. Three figures are there, moving without movement in a spiral which could be called a dance of sorts.

The question of which is which does not parse; there is no self in this place without location. No one here, only the three.

The bunker, when it is finally reached, is almost invisible amongst the foliage. The inevitable growth of decades hangs heavy over the doorway.

There is a grinding of rust, a shower of dust and then a face at the door. And it feels like home.

The pair limps in, four-legged, to a familiar space. Not one they’ve seen before, but it carries reminiscence in every corner.

To call this land of minds and melds a dream would not be inaccurate. Because after all, nothing here matters.

But to call it an ideal would not be inaccurate, either. Because after all, this is all that matters.

She goes, once, to where the Bastion was. Now home to nothing but dead aspirations and a body.

The haze rising off the tents is tinged vermillion with slaughtered souls. They are but frozen husks.

These relics, fading quick, are unnaturally still in the ethereal air. Painted enough to recognise some.

The echoes of early morning pots and pans; a bomber jacket, duty-laden; a wedding ring.

None that stir what would be grief within her. For them, a deeper search.

Her gift remains buried, for those who are worthy enough to find it.

For now, this trio will dance through the landscape. But not alone.

Words and songs mean nothing without someone there to hear them.

There is as much time as they care to make.

There is as much beauty, too, in this nowhere.

A wanderer for life, always something left behind.

Now finds somewhere to stay and dream.

The words slip, but go unheeded.

They have no use now.

It cannot be described.

The only way

is to

live.

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