Sunnandæg Reflections

—–The week’s meddlings.

—–He took another deep intake of air, dust rushed into his throat and threw him into a coughing fit, his throat raw with the copper taste of blood at the back of his tongue. Inches above his forehead wooden planks restricted his movement. He could hardly bring his knees up, nor could he turn to his side. He lay there on his back and closed his eyes, marveling at not being able to tell the difference between the back of his eyelids and his confined space. He could taste dirt and earth as it gritted his teeth. His moods swung from anger, fear, panic, depression, and anger all in the span of a few seconds as he tried again with bloodied fists to force his way through the relentless timber that confined him.

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