Winter pissing, staring up into the sky. He was always loaded, breaking things, broken. The cost is always in bodies, isn't it?
Or so it seems, facing North a last time. What do you want, really want from this? I don't know but it feels different.
He wrote, cold, wanting only to be warm. He changed his profile picture on all the social networking websites. And thought, there in the dark before waking up to piss, I'm not guilty, I didn't do it.
Coffee smells, furnace buckling and purring in the basement. Stories are about someone, so who is your character? Lately, I've been thinking about stories in terms of what's not in them, what's left out.
Certain losses can only be gesticulated towards. I don't want to leave and I'm nervous about arriving. Take a new road at least - can you do that, this time?
I can't remember, from the last dream before waking, what the headstones said. They came from many centuries, from the nineteenth on back. And I had secrets, big ones.
If I named you, instead of being coy, would the world change? Life does go on, until it doesn't anymore, doesn't it?