The mud in the trench has turned to ice. The cold has taken the edge off the smell of decomposition. I've lived in this hell for two years now.
We go over the top. Artillery shells explode above us. Suddenly, red hot agony cuts through me. As I fall I see my blood splashing the ground before everything goes dark.
Opening my eyes I take off the psychic amplification headset.
We live in a perfect world and we have lost the ability to create art.
Focusing on the horror that I felt, I pick up my pen and begin composing.