[untitled]

         The life was waiting, motorcars on the free way zooming by, leaving dust in your cuts. Leaving nothing left but the burning smell of gasoline. The smell you have come to love and hate for it is your only company. It is your only friend. It is the only thing that has grown as attached to you, as you have to it. O how you hate it. It burns you away until you are nothing left but an rusty engine, a old machine no longer in use.

        It was that which killed you, those glasses on the nose, the sweater that held warmth, those shoes that were worn. Worn in until they were nothing more than faded paper on which, your souls, your story was written. It was written with your soul.

        This story of which, you never comprehended. You never gave it the time to even finish it.

Reviews

[An owl on the moon]

I love your writing, a dark, rich depth which moves so softly.
Please let me know if you ever want to publish a book.
I would do anything to help open that door for you. You're brilliant!

Craig