The Short Account Of The Field People

We're standing in the midst of a thunderstorm. The rain is shouting while it pummels our tender faces, occasionally lighting the sky with its magnificent sparks. Its a field, the muddy ground we stand on with occasional patches of yellow grass. A few people here are shoeless, every now and then picking their feet up as to provide feeling and drive away the numbness. Off to the side stands a tall man with his head slightly cocked to the right, as if something was eternally blocking his vision. Looking around he begins to notice distintive qualities of other Field People. One kid is almost his height, though no where near the same size. Small, lanky, but with an adorable face speaking innocence he barely talks to those around him.
Three people over the tall one's eyes are caught by two long legs, displayed by a pair of cut off jeans; she lingers about whistling sirenous tunes. What is important here is not who else is noticed but who isn't. For nearly eighteen hours the tall one stares at her, wanting her, but ultimately hating himself for it. Sitting in the mud he begins to mutter hateful words about himself, running a knife across his chest in some attempt to change the subject.
Hours later he digs a hole. It takes much of his energy, the constant whack of the shovel signaling his determination. Once he reaches five feet, not having nearly any strength to go another, the shovel is tossed up onto the pile of earth. Ignoring any sort of roof or cover his head rest against a root. The only sound heard now it the pitter patter of raindrops and the quivering breathing. From his lips come nearly inaudible words,

Into the dirt I run
hiding from the storm.
Ignoring the pain, the tears;
holding onto the fading earth,
they don't exist down here,
Only I.
Their pain isn't real down here,
Only mind.
Let my living corpse possess the earth
eating the red clay to heal my hurt.