There is a man. Only from the corner of your eyes, in the periphery of your idlest moments can he be seen. He wanders aimless from place to place, job to job, family to family somehow always stationary in motion. His hands may be scarred, or they may not. The years have either been kind or vicious, long or short. Around his belly wraps a large gut or emaciated hollow growling with hunger or rumbling full of rich foods. What this man always has, always had, are the eyes of the sad, early-dead above lips sutchered silent, too weak and too confused to speak. Perhaps it's because in his mouth he tastes too many truths, too defiant and dangerous to tell, wrapping his throat with bile and battery acid; a bittersweet. Maybe it's the things he's seen, that drain him from the sockets direct; worlds so full of life they cause the brain to wrinkle like pink toes pruning in the bath. On his last day, he will manage a voice, scattered pentecostal tongue and mathematic poetry too loud to ignore and too dangerous to hear. His eyes will leak of life and wild echoes of sunlight until finally, hanging from the bridge, drowned in the bottle, massacred by enforcers of law, he will disappear to return in another life; eyes and lips in his footsteps.
Mope. Mope. Mope. Mope.
Mope. Mope. Mope. Mope.