There is soup in a puddle around you, an orange puddle like melted, but you don’t understand how it got there, or why. Accept this and move around the puddle you think. But you feel rooted there. As if a tree is under the ground ready to sprout like springtime, and the roots are pushing against the soles of your shoes. You worry they will stain your shoes orange, all this pushing and puddling. You want to bend down and lick the puddle, lap at it like a cat then find a corner to curl in. Of course this won’t happen. Outside your tent is the war and you are so tired.