We were sipping on the vine and there were famished soldiers strumming their chords and letting them ring like gentle sirens. I’m counting to three. Tombstones block my view, I’m trying to see the horizon. Apple trees block my view. I’m trying to hide from search planes. Streaking comets guard my view, I’m trying to see my home planet. I’m sipping on the vine, it’s scrambling my mind. I'm counting to three, then I’m setting the glass on the table. It’s dripping on the dirty floor. I’m swinging in my hammock, trying to find my inner child. I was listening to the soldiers play their guitars and sing their protest songs. They were guarding my view. I was trying to find my inner child, who was trying to hide from his outer-adult. Everything I tried failed. But I tried.