A man stands alone in a field of stone tablets. His back is stooped and his breaths are short— and though there is no one before him or behind him, nor to either side, one thousand pairs of eyes follow his footsteps from below.

“Please,” he begs towards the yellow sky— but the sky does not heed him, staring on in golden-eyes solitude. His voice is ragged and high.

Does he expect the spent shells underfoot to save him? Does he expect the heartless expanse above to grant him safe harbor?

They approach in a wave of acrid lantern-light. One thousand pairs of eyes below do not witness and do not care.

How pitiful the man that dies in a graveyard.