Twenty ticks and eleven tocks into a man’s day, the fourth of seven days for him to grieve the injustice shackled upon humanity. He grips war by the handle and strikes with irresistible force upon the once immovable object of hate. He finds himself guilty of hostilities for the sake of peace. He is offered no trial for his crimes of war.

He seeks admonishment for his guilt and is left with a confession upon his heart. His apologies fall silently into the void neither heard nor acknowledged. A single dove’s feather falls upon him carrying a single drop of spilled blood.

He tattoos on his skin a mark of shame.

The fourth of seven days is now complete.