Why.

As he regained consciousness, he realized how few times-if ever-he stopped to notice the subtle differences in the blades of grass. But who would. To someone constantly in motion, seemingly minute things don’t really matter. Now, they do. He is down amongst them anyway, so why not.

What.

Then it struck again. With almost the same force, the memory trickled, intertwined in the blood that streamed his face. Against the lively grass, the red blood punched more vibrantly. Almost as intense his throbbing head.

Where.

The last memory raceing with any kind of cohesiveness, is of his sprint through the field, being pursued. By who he can’t discern, but they’re loud. He’s loud. The yell is male. Why is he yelling? Why is he running franticly through such a beautiful field? Lush emerald grass, dotted with perfume lavendars and ocean blues. And reaching for the saftey of the enveloping warmth of yellow and white it happened, the cold blow. The next thing he knew, he was here. Finally observing.