It seemed easy enough. Hand the bag over, subtly pocket the exchange. Time in hand — my will was small. Each able body seemed to meander aimlessly in the hall, drifting in and out of conversations. Eyes glued to each other like hawks, seeing, believing this will go somewhere.
My hands sweat profusely around the cables. Squeezed into my own weeping — a voice of the voiceless — I struggled to understand.
15. Overly large, muscle bound, mixed in glorious anger. Automatic, single barrel — the whisky was never as succulent as a sweaty…
The art of talking.
The old man sat will full on the bench. He reminded me of dear old friend, the one who left such an imprint on me. His desire to converse dragged me next to his soiled disguise.
His coat was dark, like muzzled skin from a burn, his shadow struck ten and under it sat a willowed…