Dizzy

I swore off fighting and fled the war when the greengrocers bilked the last remnants of mineral salt from San Rafael. Without that mineral salt we could not mix our colors. It was everything we stood for, and all that we could stand, and for SR to cave the way he chose to, for him to set fire to the collanade as the detuned violas had finally paralyzed the enemy's advance, it made me long for the old log trail. At night I tore off my uniform. It lay mixing with the fern moss and kindling, colorless. I had the ability to reintroduce to it brilliant oranges and reds. But that meant aping SR.