A cool night’s summer breeze. A briar in the moonlight. Sweet smoke of Cavendish emanates, pursued by the bated breath of the hollowed one. He sucks in the evening air—almost morning now, technically—but no one really cares. Dreaming of a lost love, all the fish that got away, small pond. No one ever warns about love’s pangs—blistering sores. Roses have thorns too. The hair looks nice. A lovely young broad. A bomb breaks the silence; serenity of the moment, lost. Trouble afoot. Fuckery about. The soldier awakens. Where is the rifle? I canot find the rifle! Must shoot, but the limb is gone. A mortar of a different kind. The embers dull, ash blows underfoot as the pipe is emptied. He turns towards the concrete tower within which he resides. Sits in a chair while the metal box awaits his freight. But he sits and the doors grow tired, and he stares at the mirror. The mirror on the wall.