July 2nd, 1869...?

I’ve been having dreams.

The mail boy comes. He brings me thorns instead of ink and paper. I knock him down, but he’s gone before I touch his skin. The town is sinking, and in its place a great fence of poison barbs arises. The sunlight grows dimmer with each breath. The darkness is alive. The barbs are pointed inwards. What are they keeping in? Each leaf is edged with strange light, and something is singing. Screaming? Singing, screaming, singing. It’s so hot. How did I get here? A dry, dusty clearing

opens up ahead. I walk and find the remains of town hall. Wind blows dirty ashes into my face. Not ashes. Not ashes. Insects. In my mouth, in my eyes. Each tiny foot as hot as a stovetop. I feel the tiny eyes staring at me, and I stare back. These are the eyes of dead men. Each one hating me more than it loves itself. I don’t scream. It’s too late already. I fall to my knees and the Earth melts away. She knows what’s Hers, and She will always take it. The forest cackles as I descend. Water. Cold, clear, blue-green-purple-any-colour-you-want water. Do I have any skin left? Am I dissolving, enveloped in Her deathly kiss? Singing. Louder now, so that there is nothing else. The last of me slides away into that terrible, ghoulish voice.

The barbs are pointed inwards.

Obviously I am not well. No mail boy has really come, and no strange happenings are truly afoot. These are the subconcious thoughts of a man deeply betrayed. Someone more artistic than me could surely decode some practical meaning from these images, but I haven't time for that. I spend my days wandering the streets looking for food and drink. I patrol the road into town in case some curious folk end up near enough to aid me. Nobody has come.

To eat, I’ve mostly found dry goods in abandoned pantries. Crackers, soups, and other bland peasant’s food. Some potatoes. I have enough food for a week, maybe two. This is obviously a problem. It's surely not enough to get me out of here. It's simply too far to walk. Any gardens that I may have scrounged something from were trampled and destroyed along with the rest of town. Some good things I happened to find are a gun and a knife. Someone must have dropped them in the street during the riots. No ammunition of course, but I’d still rather have the gun in my possession than on the streets. Perhaps I could manage to kill some wild game with the knife, if I get so lucky. If only I had some wire, I could set a snare. In the meantime, I must strictly ration my food. I’ll gladly come close to starving if it means getting out of here. For water, rainwater has been sufficient so far, but I must search for a stream or spring for a more reliable supply.

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In my wandering around town, I’ve noticed some rapid deterioration of the buildings. It's strange how quickly the wooden boards will sink back into the mud. I suppose the ground is quite unstable from the weather

changes, so sinkholes could be to blame. Unlike in my dreams, the ashes from town hall have mostly blown away. There's nothing left but deep, damp soil where it once stood. It's a shame that nobody will be using this land anymore. The forest is already growing back in. Grass is overgrown everywhere, and brambles are creeping across the streets. It may just be me, but it seems like there are more trees than before. Some saplings here and there, and they cast darker shadows. The leaves are a deep, dark green that almost shines when the sun hits it. The kind of green you could just drown in. The larger forests are so dense. I guess I never really looked at them before. There are so many noises that come from the forests. Sometimes far away, sometimes close. The trees hiss and whisper in the wind. Sometimes the coyotes and foxes get loud, fighting over some carcass or the other. There's not many birds though. No songs. Sometimes I think that I hear men talking or yelling in the distance. It's a strange feeling, wishing for someone to come save you and dreading their appearance all at once. You never know who is a friend and who is a foe. Never. Not even family, not even decent men. Not scholars, not politicians, not soldiers, chefs, men, women, slaves. Anyone might turn your words and stab your back. All people really want is to watch blood flow while they say that they did all they could. Everyone wants a hero, needs a hero, is a hero. Nobody knows how to be one, though. You can try your best to do what’s right, but in the end, someone is going to hate you. Someone is going to think you’re the scourge of the Earth. Someday, someone is going to look you in the eye and really see, really see. What will you say to them then? Will you stare back? Will you see them? Will you fall into yourself? Whatever you think, there's only one truth. And nobody will ever know what it is. The screams from the woods mean nothing in the end. Each man out there is on his own. It's between Him, God, and the Devil. Try as you might, a part of Each Of Us belongs in Hell. That’s the nature of man. Whether pieces of me or my whole self will find their way down, I don't know. I don't think I’ll be there anymore to see it happen. The creatures out there are beyond rights, laws, money, power. It is their only born purpose to exist as a wild extension of the forest, that which cannot tear or kill by itself.