White wall with silhouettes of branches moved by the wind cast with red light shadow moon’s glow. From dimmed screens come rumblings of power struggles and land-locked capitals. As Earth begins yielding to life again, against the center, new relics that have replaced old, razed and rebuilt, only names and faces change. How many have known nature of the imperial boot? Leaves shed, winter’s branches remain. The white wall in pale red light, shock to the system that requires the test of dreaming. After locating the light switch, begin with fragments, raw feeling like picking out a treasure map through scars. X marks the spot where the numbness, negation of country and of faith lies. No will to look at those who sold the farm for a few magic beans as anything but opposite of self.