Saturday, June 23, 2007
nighttime
he rubbed his eyes as if he wanted to erase the blue in them. tears streaming down, burning the road into his skull. he parked the car on the side of the road, walked out and sat quietly in the dark. looking at his hands, articulating each finger, feeling the muscles under the skin. trying to busy his brain with physical instructions. this man is not thinking about anything. this man hasn't really got a story to tell. this man is alone. this man is not a man.
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I guessed. But don't give up on him just yet. (How many walls must a man paint before you call him a man?)
ReplyDeleteeveryone has a story to tell. you would not grant him such eloquence unless it were so.
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