My life...resounds—with the sound of smashing rifles. Four distorted notes, pounding on linoleum—the sound of booming voices, for we have worked so hard.

Composition, stark—black linoleum with flecks of snow, dirty snow—and the constant slam of the rifles; an organized ticking of tocks, that are brown and dirty and black and shiny. Beauty comes in the masculine bellows, in discipline and the onward creak of joints; old before our time.

The spark starts here, flying and blooming, our hands cracked with skin and blood; this is the passion. This is a life of forever young, and forever strong.

The resonating rifles flutter and trumpet in the ears; this is why we fight.