Strange visions have invaded my sleep as of late. Surreal, yet like a landscape that I have seen before. Only different. Twisted. Dreams sometimes made all the more real with a nightcap of absinthe. This diary will log my wisping memories of my dreamscape.
He rode the narrow path, having chosen the left-most of the two. I rode to the right of him under the graffitied bridge. Our transport was like that of a bicycle, yet hovering inches above the concrete.
“How far south have you gone?”
“Past the zelkova tree. The one that has seen too many wars.”
“One is too many. One is more than enough.”
It was all uphill to the zelkova. But the incline was slight enough that you often wondered why it was that you had to work so hard. Were you not as prepared as you had once been? Did your legs tire so quickly? Why so much effort just for a tree?
It grows outward more than upward. Its branches, rolled with the fat of the ages, hang down and require metal supports. It is a tree with a walker, a wheelchair, limping beside the river.
“One war is too many,” it would say. “One is enough.”