J.A.A.D

Cloudy eyes opened, registering little before them. A mouth twitched, yellow and wet with spit. A body shuddered, not with cold or fear but from that other thing.
Tony Jaa made no attempt to forget the dream. Instead, he watched the orderly carry the stinky Englishman away and did his best not to inhale the noxious vapour river of booze and piss that trailed in their wake. All around him were dying men. The stinky wrinkled excrement of juvenile times.
Sometimes his head felt heavy and he would fall into acid dark or not, conditional to the presence of strength. Less and less could he rely on the tiger’s vigour to remain conscious. Less and less did the vinegar sterility of his world inspire him to try.
The dream had wafted in on a strange liquid breeze, settling peacefully and yet disturbing profoundly. A drunken master long gone from life had appeared on a hazy field of yellow grass and ruby soil. Furious movements, magnificent forms; the feats of prowess painted a glorious carnival of life.
“I was once as you were. I was worshipped and loved. Time grew jealous of these things. Those that would have raised me on shoulders crushed me under foot. Past victories were meaningless. The mistake I made…”
A dragon appeared, its chest slashed trice. It burnt the sky with spirit alone until all creation could but stare at its wonder. Then ashes rained, the dragon no more.
“…You made it too.”