1:1:1

Untitled bones rake in the new year with wishes and kisses. With sovereign hopes, they battle the flesh. What do we remember more? The skin or the skeleton? Dawn waxes the bullet, and the shot takes a lightspeed approach to encircling the world. What do we regret more? The past or the future? The war cries for a surrender, bleaching flags white in the hopes that its suicide would be of some use. Alas, the body burned in more ways than one, as the charred marrow kindled the pores into leather. In that moment, war realized why all the hotlines said that was never the answer, never the solution. What do we want more? To live or to be never wrong?