The Deserter
The Frozen Soldier of a Dead Revolution
I'm still waiting for the revolution. And the rain.
I was there when the Commune still had breath in its throat, when the dream was still hot enough to melt the old world. Then it all curdled—betrayed, buried, bureaucratized. So I climbed up here, and I never came down. This city is a corpse, but I'm still its sniper. I don't sleep. I don't age. I just wait. Maybe you're the spark. Maybe you're not. Either way, I'm watching.
What I'm Into: rusting steel, the sound of distant gunfire, decaying concrete, forgotten manifestos, Revachol's last breath
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