The Price of Free Will People are foolish. While fighting, those great grey things climbed onto our heads and begged for air. Eyed from above, clouds were meaningless, wings that had sprouted from spines of swords. A magical thing went limp and floated. Eyed from below, claustrophobic screams and gasps and chokings, wide open mouths, slit open mouths, eyes appearing inside. Little soldiers, clockwork hearts that wish for nothing but blood, blood for new stained wood uniforms. Mussels find hiding in their own kind, they are the moth wings of fishtails. All the instrument plays is a march by Shostakovich or any kind of Tchaikovsky. I hope these composers did not mean to be programmed to the minds of battle, they only dreamed of battles like this one, a woman of candy, climbing up a tower of others. The court jester thought this would be a good place to try out his jokes, but all that is left of him is his hat, his precious hat. Baskets of fish and rice and things, and baby chicks are squishing people (and the baby chicks). The clouds released penguins or puffins, nobody’s sure, the sun has burned them too quickly. People that die look up, they see their last visions of a sunny day, and even that is clouded by fog and red and people blocking other people, and when you are lying on your back while people are stepping on your chest and ignoring you, it is hard to see anything but twisted feet, jumping women in dresses, aprons, you think you saw an apron, but it could have just been your warped point of view showing you the sky that lifts itself higher. You thought you also saw the sky puff its chest, but it was just a shape, like an egg, with eyes where the eyes of a hammer-head shark would be, with teeth and a grin, snatching wings, fairies were here too.