I can hear the river through the trees.
Miller’s Wood. Near the clearing. The village. The family.
Can’t move my head. My arms. Anything.
Can’t feel. How long have I been here?
Where are the others? Anna? Charley? Miss Kearns?
They were right behind me.
Before he met us.
Before it all went black.
It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. It wasn’t the plan.
That son-of-a-bitch. Why did I trust him?
Birds are stirring. I can smell.
Moss. Damp ground. Smoke.
Is that the crackle of a fire?
Are those screams?
I smell gasoline. Someone is standing over me.
Writing Poetry About UX Is Like Dancing About Information Architecture.