Eyes?

I found my eyes. Shocking, in a way. I'd left them lying, somewhere.

I could no longer avoid.

The pain of hope.
The torment of possibilities.

The gift is loved.
Not the gifted one.
Exile.
Fugitive.

A little bit of sleep would go a long way here.

The sounds of sirens,
echo in warmth.
Gratifying,
to know.

Love is unjust: Justice is loveless.

Soon doubled,
our mortality.
One will see the other die.
By marrying, we double deal,
the cards of hope and fear reveal:
that was then.
This is the real.

What?

This isn't exactly helping Buck on his road to mental wellness. Now he's trying to steal my credit cards to buy the favors of little Chihuahuas. I know that they make their near silent beckonings to him, the ones that we humans cannot hear or understand...

"Weave the wind. I have no ghosts,..."

For Buck, there is only the opening. Never the closure.

They beckon him with promises of ecstasy and understanding. He obtains neither; but is nonetheless compelled to pursue...though he tires of cheap motels. Still, he is drawn to the near absolute purity of the neon lights. The absolute truth of the colors. He no longer fears color.

Out of the darkness, there may appear a shining light. That's the one they use to bash your head in, when you're mesmerized by the sight. But Buck is willing to sit in the corner with a cup of coffee, biding his time. That's just the sort of terrier he has endeavored to become, over the years.

Buck rubs his curled paw against his eye. He glances at the shadows.

And he says his little prayer to help him to keep sitting still. He understands the hunt. He understands the importance of sitting still.

People hunting in the desert tend to use large flashlights. I'd keep that in mind. Like, if I were wandering about the desert, and shit...

Buck knows better, but listens every night. He is wired to listen. Compelled to hear.

He knows just how far to go. Now, he can uncross his legs, and make his way across the parking area. Were it not for the thunder, he’d be less wary.

"Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;
The worlds revolve like ancient women
gathering fuel in vacant lots."

His lack of guilt is but a brief remembrance. The ugliness of this sunrise dispels all doubt.

The beauty of light surpasses all expectations.

The cynics laugh and scorn. Many have knelt too long.

Buck never kneels. His sins are his own. He stores them under his pillow, to bring them out when the asphalt is wet enough to support them.

Doggy bones, and the bones of other ancestors come to light. They don't particularly care for light, but they come to it.

Could be a flashlight. I'd watch out for them. But that's just me.

I'd ask the waitress for the tab, but she's flashing her thighs elsewhere.

You can always judge a restaurant by its bathroom. That's why I always piss outside. I don't want to know. I already know.

Sunrise on wet asphalt. Walking distance. Funny how the water doesn't stick to the stripes. The separations.

Neon closedown time. Time to go to bed.

I no longer fear color.