The sun set long
ago. The roseate domains have shrunk
back behind coastal ramparts leaving only tiny, remnant scraps in distant
oceans. Years pass, as Little Islanders
strive to shore up their crumbling dreams.
Stumble out for a
jubilee or funeral then retreat behind the door again - unnerved by the
darkness of alien streets. Endlessly recycle
the usual lies and pathological distrust, as red crosses hang limp and work
dries up. Knock back miniatures in a car
park and wonder where the regulars went as, one by one, shutters go up and the old
battle cruisers fall into disrepair.
No comments:
Post a Comment