These are times.
Hunter’s sky looms large as I watch a friend step out into the cold, more than a snap, and the friend is waiting, actively, living every inch of road between him and the impending bus.
The bus arrives and he departs, swearing, bitter at the cold.
What we need is a character to hold. I shall trick the friend into a madman, malevolent towards a past that neither gave nor received favours, only lessons. A madman reeling from punches and afflictions and adorations, the vibrant awkward handsome one. He’s inside his own head now, plotting a journey. We can’t see him, I can’t see him.
Everyone I know, dies. Everyone that dies, I know.
No one will stop. Is it a symptom of age? I ask, not without hope and not without suspicion, to ask is the thing. I am clumsy in my thinking these days, my words clunk against each other, celebratory, without saying anything. Perhaps I am fixed upon an era, I think further still, a dying generation… I have found love and reward in the terminal, a people that I can never reach. I encourage this. I perhaps encourage this.
The notion of respect swells with age also though. We cannot establish mere cause and effect. Rivers do not run backwards, but our glances upstream do. I have been sketching too much recently, fine pencil lines, filling and hatching, darkening my histories. These people mean this, those mean that. I have no template; regression and reformation write the journals of past lovers.
There is no sadness. Peerage and coverage. Apt and fitting. Hunter Stockton?
I read the news more often these days. Also, my friends also make more journeys across town. These two deny a connection, according to reports.