And now lost, thinking maybe all he ever had was nothing compared to the farther he walked now wanting less than more, a little scared, profane, or to be called profane, vulgar, unpolished, everything that reeked of rough edges, splintery surfaces, the sun baking nothing beneath it until the nights (now colder) dawn next to the void they imitate.
Or to sit down with a pen, as he did, smearing words across a page dotted made nine he couldn’t tell that a year was leaking into an ink splotch around the eyes he drew to resemble caves he fled. Of course, he always opened his eyes to the moment once the moment opened its eyes to him and they had this staring match going until he saw the moment as a mirror . . . a staring match against ?
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