I know people are sick of me. All I do is type. A military machete in this cold blind earth. A farm of dead pumpkins and a charred and cremated skeleton of a barn that burned down, my old dog "Bean" buried beneath the shade of a giant red oak. He was the most humblest of Manchester Chihuahuas, his tiny bones make the flowers grow.
Most people smell like trees to me, or mules, my little known secret, I love mules, a mule will toil for ten years methodically and patiently for you, just for the privilege of kicking you once.
I can't tell you how many times I've lain underneath the rain pelting a foreign roof and missed home. It's funny because I'm home now and I just don't belong here, I don't belong anywhere, like an oddly colored and shaped stone from an alien world, in a vast open field and unbothered by the violent weather and howling werewolves, I am terrified of the unhappy voice that sleeps in me.