Dust settles in the corners of their eyes and the branches of their lungs, white staining their vision, breaths heavy with sand. The emptiness can be beautiful, can serve as a metaphor for their organs or their personal horizons, lets them blot out the sun with the curve of a thumb and wonder if that's all it really takes. They are warriors, but their boots are weighed with politics and they are marching a fragile line, ears straining for commands that come from tin cans, voices thick with static and numbers. But on they drive, and march, to ancient beats pulsing in the hot sand and the hot sky, waiting for the fire of danger to spark within them at any moment, fingers steady on their weapons. Acoustic guitars swell with their tempo, electricity zips up the strings to give them excitement, but static filters in and slows their footsteps as night washes the light from the world, letting their destruction become a celebration in the sky.
Here at
timeisfiction.