Presbyopia

The desert has broke its quarantine, slipping across the border in the nave of a C5 Galaxy.

With the millstone of war now but a token tucked in the folds of a blanched red cape hanging stiffly in the stall of a greyer and greyer wardrobe, the havoc-keen mind turns to seeking new prey, rending the causeway of darting shoals.

The once-unoccupied body rejects its prevailing indolence, remembering its former prowess, craving the clout of motive, no longer to languish. The creeping rot of dignity has failed to quell a roiling; the clever administration has fallen away, only feral residuals remain.

A silent dexterity attempts to maintain its dicey balance upon the crumbling fulcrum of benevolence. The frenzy-deprived brainwork straddles it. Any attempt to counteract a previous deed amplifies it. The resonant frequency echoes across the stress fracture chasms.

Dug from beneath a medley of heavy, heraldic emblems with moth-chewed ribbon garlands, explicit tools are riled and handled with proper custody.