the pieces that i have built up; fragments of pictures that make up the whole, staring back at me through the mirror glass with a raised eyebrow; the hole behind it full of visions of fights and bright lights romanticised through the tame curtain that lies on my real nights. waking in bed full of tiredness, still not dirty enough for you, the dreams are small but the images are vivid and high and green, i lie in a sea of crystals filled with smoke, encapsulating stories of war-torn pretty faces; the war that's ravaging through the minds of this generation, at least we're fighting it together, little dreaming tin soldiers