THIS IS ONE
I find myself in marshland, a bog quilled with sparse, russet-jointed grasses, fletched here and there with the cling of small winged things. Soaked to the knees, I rest on a narrow patch of solid ground, thickly mossed and oozing softly when I shift my weight. The sky is pale and featureless except for the stenciled arcs of distant birds. The day is shadeless, the horizon without landmark. I don't know how to go from here.
Every day a thousand deaths. This is one.