“Our lives are just timewars

    Silly, stubborn things that bubble between our rubber boots

    Bärlauch-scented reminders of our own troubled superficialities


    Simple, human objects

    perceived through eyes that pretend to see

        a fallacy all their own.


    So, in the drunken stupor of self-awareness, we pretend to exist

        pretend to hear

            pretend to know

                pretend to feel

    with arrogant perspicacity:

    the Zeit Kreig;

    the war never won

    the war never lost.”

With a raspy grunt, Erik pulled the nib out of his pen. It was a rustic tool, its usage reserved for the occasional half-hearted signature, or, in this case, frilly, meaningless poetry. Though seldom used, Erik found the pen wrote much more smoothly than any of the Party-distributed instruments. It was his treasure, a hidden bit of concubine that only he knew existed. In fact, that was what excited him the most. The thought of keeping something so illegal, so unorthodox, aroused him. It was the freedom, too. The freedom to hold a pen, a real pen, and the freedom to write freely.

With a drawn-out sigh, Erik roused himself into a better position and refocused on the page.

“Our lives are just timewars,” he said.

“How terribly ironic.”


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