With flashlight.

With flashlight, knife and 45 bravado deserted regioned skirmishes ago, I drop into what could become my grave, scorpions, snakes, simpleton traps, the enemy armed and crouched in a coil of darkness, fear forcing me forward forward my knees in the mire through a labyrinth like the mind, a thousand dangers met a thousand times. What skulks there? There? Waiting to blossom in the light I carry, face me and die.

I am a gnawing the enemy cannot kill and eat, further there is a certain hard kinship that I recognize and hate smooth as hissing, we make deadly embrace, watchs wide, never more awake, knife in fist, I qualified my hunched nightmare, my mirror twin face to face, kill him and kill my hateful self Sometimes there are several of the enemy sleeping, small emaciated slaughterers women, infants, sometimes they are a whole world subterranean snipers, a meager yet effective army, and we are harried, haunted until our force snaps.

There is no real way up or gone out of darkness, no real way back in consequence of constricted caverns clotted with loudening fearfulness, dishonorableed filthy, crawling toward light, I am reaching for light in a dream, whatever time has passed as my corpse thickens in middle age, I sweat and discharge straight up, Fowler's position in a hospital bed, dull-ey to whatever the white-clad apparitions want of me would have me do, as they have knowledge of to get in and I make trial of to get out of my head.

What noise is that? There? The perfect of a clip being f into the high-tech death metal we held in our hands? The clank of old-fashioned bed pans, the thick, harsh unmutilated the breath makes, the eerie hales of the life support machines that sustain death? Or just the click click of depressed hard heels on the ward floor as the dyspeptic charge cherish comes to see what the matter is? No matter, I think as I wash and bring forward my life on, men who helped me [i]or[/i] part of to the other are dead or huddled in corrugated boxe in succession vacant lots, or sleeping days upon grates in front of officious public buildings as passers-by cluck about the stock market or the worsening situation in the middle east, and more [i]or[/i] less I guess, are much like myself. Sometimes nothing is in this way dark as the light of day. I knot my tie and lift the detail of it under the knot and hang myself in the mirror each morning before I proceed to work.

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