here’s a black soul pacing in front of the house, burping rudely and deeply, a look on his face saying that his body is rebelling against him, rising up a gorge of foul golden liquid with a texture that feels like cotton blankets look. He isn’t the miserable beast that he appears as now but is, in his pacing, menacing everyone accidentally; he’s nicer than anyone knows, including himself; it’s the gorge within the gorge that rises and falls with the breathing of his chest as he sleeps and, really, sleep is all he wants right now, the sleep of attrition; this is all he knows.

He sits down for awhile, picks at the skeleton of a bush, looks around and pretends that no one can see him although everyone can. He is the stranger in the midst of all things familiar, mirrors reflecting himself reflecting strangers instead.

Are everyone’s eyes really this dead? Are mine?

He just wants sleep when everyone else around him wants so much more; far more than he is willing or able to give.

He wonders if he’s lost his wallet but he hasn’t. He wonders if anyone has tried to call him but they haven’t.