The expedition began in the toe.
The smallest of spaces made new again.
The place where you keep all your future deaths compacted.
No one was sure if we were winning the war or not,
all information was received via an accounting of the stars.
Better luck next time.
After reaching the summit we turned around and headed back down.
No one took any pictures, as the tremendous loss of life seemed to prevent it.
Later on someone remarked, but no one was listening.
The exile, in his solitude, composes letters on the bottom of his feet.
Soon someone will ask how we got here, and no one will return.
This should be guarded against.
Remember your oath.
Because this is not what it says it is, it is something different. No one knows what it is.
The opposition had taken the form of sleep. No one trusted their dreams.
No one is a response to nothing.
No one is here.