(Poem #226 on new numbering scheme)
It is some kind of giant house - in Mexico, I guess. In hills, a purple sun hangs low. We all wear battle dress. I bear a weapon in my hand. We seek some evil man. The air, it reeks of burning wood and peaches from a can I'm walking down long corridors. I'm searching for my team. A slowly ticking clock goes *snap* I woke up from the dream.
– three quatrains in ballad meter.