Emily Fletcher

The Wall

The days are endless now. Burning, blistering and endless, seeping pointlessly into one another without end. The one true end arrives only with death, which comes sooner than it once had. Or so I’ve heard. Rumours, they are just rumours of the past because that is all we have left – the words we speak to one another that distort and shift over time like waves, becoming what each person needs them to be so the truth is malleable. Once upon a time the weather moved between seasons, shifting between warmth and cold like the breeze. People lived many decades until their faces were so altered with time that they were unrecognizable from those they had been in their youth. Or so I’ve heard.