It began when they come took me from my home
And put me in Dead Row,
Of which I am nearly wholly innocent, you know.
And I’ll say it again
I.. am.. not.. afraid.. to.. die.
Cold, still, heavy, damp air encourages one to remain ensconsed, the familiar nagging doubt weedling away in the back, make that the front, of my mind, and I concede; I am afraid to die. Alloy, rubber and carbon my Trojan horse, Flandrian Best my only armour, protecting the extremities yet ill-equipped to deal with internal forces. Continue reading