Tuesday 28 June 2016

The Prince of Exiles, 25

It's through the sky dock we'll get in, scaling the side of the steps, avoiding the lights. Everything stinks, everything is slick with blood and slime, and the obsidian walls are slippery, hard to grip.

It takes longer than we thought to get up to the dock, and more than once, exposed, we see small troops of guards below, and wonder if they're looking for us.

The moon is invisible behind the orange-dyed clouds and my sense of time is beginning to slip. I don't know what time it is, how long we have. Morning has to be coming soon. I am tired. It rained fish. I killed someone with a bare hand.

I am tired. I am tired. There are people inside who are, I know, infinitely more weary.

I imagine the machines, the chains. We can loose these chains. But then what?

[Collected Writings Index]