Old, gray, broken. A man utters the words, claims the statement: blue is the colour of victory, everyone's favourite, but it isn't happiness. The man has the military far behind him, years have passed in great numbers, but it still stares him in the face. He sees black in a staring eye, it grows, overtakes him, an overwhelming memory. The story begins.

Alone in strange vibrating, curving grass I stand. Once green, corrupted by scarlet, bowing for whatever master was to follow the growing stream of destruction. We don't know who, but then again, there is no we. I stand alone. If i could swim in blood, as so many generals did before, i'd still drown in an ugliness they'll never have to face. Grass still corrupted, suppressed under blood. Once strong and high, once like I was. We were an army, brothers ready to die, strangers ready to forget. The beauty of life forgotten, the memory of scarlet sediment surrounding me. Little brothers demolished to vast carpets. Corrupting the grass.
Knowledge was ours, not giving us power, but humility. Knowledge gave us an image only exceeded by the final pain. I know only one image: final pain of children, drawn to dirt, claimed by earth. Memory is mine forever, my image grew, will never be overthrown.
We saw an army, comming closer when we advanced. Metal, shining innocence: the beauty of technology.
Advancing towards a black mist. Grasping around, spreading pain that can't be remembered. A black fog, soon to leave the earth, taking us with it. I stand alone, i see many black clouds hiding the sunshine. Now pain is only mine. Carrying it a life time, too long for any kind of torture.

An old man sees beautiful grass: high, strong, reaching. He sees the quest to the sun, the longing for rays of light. An old man sits alone in a shadow thrown by black clouds. A broken man sees an image, a memory: scarlet darkened by shadows.