The countryside around here is forever a grim reminder of the events that took place - is it forty years ago now? How time flies when your are tangled in it.
Time is relative, said Einstein and took all mine - it litters the fields under broken crosses and stones one day to be bought.
I never visit any of them though I always mean to, and more often claim to, usually to cover up some lie or other.
The hours hang like blackened clouds over a flat troubled Earth, and the ticking of the World Clock is as the incessant pattering and dripping of a rain that never ends.
The fields are all unplanted whites and grays and fade into an uncertain horizon.
The circle's closed, and though I wish for nostalgic red poppies to people my thoughts, I would probably pass them by unnoticed.