In a (conveniently) spaceless and timeless location, a boy climbed among the rubble. A world of poetry and rhyme, this was not. Painted gray skyes smothered dull gray mountains, and one would be lost among the monotone nature of it all. But, that boy had motivation. A desperate grip on the stones, to slip would whence mean the end of it all. Tell me if I am wrong?. Distorted texturing of the burying mammoth rock-side attempts to overwhelm. Not slick, easily grippable but straining for it, up he went. Up, up, up. Up as the only concievable direction other than down. To go down is to lose that war that you yourself raised. And such, he proceeds to do what he knows he has to, on and on. Up and up, mindnumbing and focused. This funeral procession for the soul takes a lot. Raising yourself above the remaining world, what do you believe yourself to be young boy? He does not answer for he does not hear, such is the way of the action-tending. Cracking of ancient walls, a slip. Don't scream. Like a bug desperate on a windshield, crushed and clinging. Played with by the great wind, he fades.