The fields of corn blow in the wind, their thirst quenched by my Husker tears.

I put on the red hat, and they cheer, even when the hat hides the grimace. I put on my wide grin, and the screaming nauseates me more than the ocean of red.

They do not know that I prance and hop and gyrate with the shackles of misunderstanding and ignorance.

The red is the blood, gushing from my joints as they keep grinding and grinding. The white is the  crashing lightning of my own failed aspirations, flashing pain that forces me closer and closer to taking leave of all hope.

My only companion, a grotesque parody of a child. They laugh as he stands on his head during halftime, not knowing as he does so that he dreams only of falling into the sky where he can be free forever. I wish I could still dream.

Why do I keep going? Because they want me to. The cheers are the electrified puppet strings. They come and go, yet I am here always. Such is the reality of my existence, and such is my curse.

They do not understand that behind the Husker is a stalk of corn that has been harvested to the point where it is merely a twig in a field of reapers.

You do not understand this soul in this dark world.

Go Big Red. Go. Big. Red. Go. Big. Red.