Comments Posted By James Falero

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delivery

It was cold that morning. More black than grey. The trains were steaming along, slow at first.
I wondered, in a half-struck, and sidelong way, a dark thought. All the young men of the city were gone. But the men in their brown uniforms, still marching, abreast, down the cobble road.
The orderliness, the ordinariness of empire. With all its regalia
and ritual. Was every murderer a king at heart? Every king a murderer in turn?

The coffee was tepid. The faucet dripping. Modern convenience, rusting away, with all its dim iron. Its funny how our homes are at first shelters. And then schools. Prisons have four walls too. And finally, tombs.
Funny how a city, I called home, could be all those things too. Down in the street, even now, the men shouting, still in orderly fashion. No more parts than people. Orchestrated, with their bayonetts, and brown shirts. Monstrosity is never an abstract. It exists in the ordinary.
I licked my chapped lips, and adjusted my cap. The streets would be haunted, even while busy, with the sullen unfed eyes of mothers sweeping, and children playing, half-hearted, but not too loud.
A quiet society.
A manacled society.
I am Isaac Levin, reporting from the invisible front, at paris, france. October 3rd, 1942.
And I have a delivery to make. Tick tock.

» Posted By James Falero On 03.19.2016 @ 2:23 am

Deliver up the ghosts of the past
or the heroes that once were
and all that I have conquered, wont last, no.
I give as a gift to her. But love?
Surely love will outlast this world.
– Memory

» Posted By James Falero On 03.19.2016 @ 2:13 am

Deliver up the ghosts of the past
or the heroes that once where
and all that I have conquered, wont last
I give as a gift to her.
Surely love will outlast this world.
– Memory

» Posted By James Falero On 03.19.2016 @ 2:10 am

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