Clear by detail24.deviantart.com

Music : Maksim's Nostradamus

I'm thinking of picture driven stories, using the pictures to portray the settings, instead of mere decorations. Inspired by the letters of fallen marines during the Iraq war, in Newsweek.
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The sun's rays was diffused by the morning mist, casting a rather haunting ambient glow over the woods. And the morning howls... Oh the damn bloody morning howlings of the animals that lurk in these god forsaken, desolate woods. Or more proper, dead woods. Dead, as in unliving?

Nay. These trees are alive all right, but it's a corruption in their souls, their purpose of existence is vile and despicable. That lack of vibrance, that lack of energy.

That is why they are dead. No matter how alive they can be, when that character that makes them alive is lost, they are merely living an existence akin to machines, without purpose, but living for the sake of it.

And no wonder why, he, whilst walking through such woods, felt so much sorrow. Hanging in the air was a sense of emptiness, a sense that in this place, nothing prospers, everything dies. It felt like there was a vampire in the air itself, sucking away all life.

And it would take a nerve of steel, and a hungry heart, to walk through these woods without succumbing to the fear that envelops it.

Alas, he isn't one of such character, but merely a young villager in panic and fleeing, lost and astray from the beaten path. Astray? Lost?

What is lost? Lost is when you don't know where you are?

This child, will tell you, that being lost, is when you have nowhere to return. It's like a kite with broken strings, so to speak, like a bottle floating on the seven seas, wondering where the tide, currents and winds will lead it.

His fingers were bloody, hurt by the branches, the undergrowth and all the foliage scattered in it. He wondered where to go, what to do, all whilst inside, suppressing a great hunger, and deprivation of rest.

Run!

That was what the other villagers told him, and the other children, whilst the raiders slaughtered every single man, woman and child with their furious and bloody swipes.

It was war.

No one will be spared.

Take no prisoners.

To him, it was like a nightmare. A bloody nightmare, followed by an adrenaline filled marathon escape from the scimitar weilding horsemen.

But it was late, and he's been running all night.

He could no longer hear the echoing rumbles of the horses, nor the shriek of the scimitars.

The fear of death, was gone.

In it's stead, there was a great longing emptiness.

And that, was perhaps far greater than anything else, for anyone to feel.
More pain than actual death itself.

And he felt no different, at that time, with the dead woods.

He and those dead trees, are the same.
Empty, without their leaves to provide nourishment, as how he is now without a home.

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KAKAKA, pretty darn long, I say.