fate of the next guy

soreness creeked in neck. he asks their opinion on everything, can never think for himself. it’s a wonder he made it this far. overcompensates with hyperactivity and they see transparency. who is this idiot, they say? what decade generates this kind of idiot. docile child’s face from ’39, Hitler with his lettuce sandwhich. it is bed time, think of some prayers, think of Poland wiped out by Germany, drink water out a of a small paper cup, throw your weight around. is that fair? what is fair? it is all far off. it all blends together. off and on, you have your insanity. this guy comes from his war, rents a room in a town where the white paint is chipping off and everyone waves as they drive by. he has nightmares and cannot enjoy his life, says it has been poisoned by the circumstances. he can get to bed but never wakes up feeling rested. to stay awake he walks through the mine fields. tank treads over his frail shins. shards.