It was all the  fevered dream of a

It was all the  fevered dream of a wine drunk soldier, sunk in a nightmare, him late of the fallen walls of the city in flame.  The walls of troy, the fallen soldiers.

So easily daunted. The shift from Jason to Troy, just from reading some book that reenacted the Argonauts tale in the most lyrical prose. Rife with fragments from other times and recipes. 

The hackneyed stumbling stories of mine (yes, hackneyed is underscored with tragic pun usage), the tales of nothing to everyone, yet everything in my small world – these become delicate lacy lettered reminders of inadequacy. But that matters not at all. I am in a vacuum, placing words in the boundless static of space, restive despite the darkening cloud of doubt.

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