The Farmer

Rain drops glistened, gleamed. Diaphanous before they penetrated uplifted soil. Collecting upon the ground they formed a deep streaming line; run-off, run away dreams. The fresh garden smelt of earth: emerald muck. It became the only aroma that he knew as he plowed— the vast area designated to crops. The only profit that he knew. Nothing less, Nothing more. His work was the entirety of his concern, designated for his sidetracked mind to remain on its dewy matter. Precipitation of his moistened eyes raced with the droppings, dropping from the approaching stars. Fast money before investment, He was bound to being a farmer. Nothing less, nothing more. Through his endeavors the sun abandoned the sky, without a fret it set on a wasted day. The sun saw him in his actions, a man with a fruitless yield; the night saw him in his heart, a man with a fruitful dream; he saw himself as a man. A man amounted to a figment: a feigned perspective thought. Nothing less, nothing more. He was only a living memory, designed to be forgotten. To compose the Earth’s history you need the blood of each deceased tenant. One day. What would matter is that he was a pixel the smallest element in an image of a movie: unreal, a presentation of an action. Nothing less, nothing more.