Perplexed by the utility of love - the blunt instrument by which we excuse our higher faculties like better judgement and grace.
Vanished from him across the sea. Drying eyes with salted air, the Northbound man set trade winds free. A raft adrift though lashings taught. Emptying his pockets, scatter rusted keys. He recognized one: strong toothed iconoclast; a head worn. Exchanged tired looks. Escape from safe keeping or so would seem.
A foreign voice, bob and drift yours, further down after years streaming trapped in hesitation. and drown Rusty and broken, winding “This is me,” cries it says. thrashing “This is me,” doppler in effect it agreed.
Like fresh earth, roots settled in; surround me. No clear pictures - how why - rather, a breeze strolled; a hammock rocked; hair wisped over a forehead. Dug into what grounds me.
“Bombs away!” came the bombardier shouting to his captain. “Bombs away.” his captain confirmed low along the horizon. “All that for one person?” came the bombardier, again, though not one to question orders. The captain thought it strange, never one to question openly. “Do you think” -explosions rippled below- “do you think they’ll feel anything?” For the first time, the bombardier wondered. Only silence answered. Bomb a building, a tank, an army, any of many things; they feel nothing. One person, everything.