The exception that proves the rule. A blog of short writings from Australia and England.
Friday, 24 April 2015
Death flew past overhead, but it sometimes crept alongside our feet instead. It always watched over us in our beds, and it would cradle us in its arms whensoever we were bled. We cried because we couldn't remember the last time we were fed, we fought over moulding lumps of bread, but it didn't matter. Soon we'd be dead.