Sometimes a man with nothing good left to die for, can live with nothing to lose.

A kid was running through a field. The dream always started like that, with the boy moving or doing some sort of action. It was always him, the protagonist, the center of that whole reality that never seemed to disappear or change form, remaining a stagnant reminder of times past. True, such things are usually referred to as memories, but calling such instances “memories” would lower the impact they . . .