They submit to repose as more callus skin forms over the torn surfaces.
No blood was shed but my senses are now dulled thanks to endless nights on metal strings and plastic pens and fictional tears of inconsequence.
The last night, I should denote, I saw the strangest thing...
Oscar Lowe's Notes
There is a young boy walking down the street at 4am.
He just wants to get some sleep and I just want to be him.
Who is he?
Why, at this hour between the moon's solid stance and the sun's sharp awakening, does he patrol the empty expanse of this town like a soldier on watch?
And yet, his face is a sea of emotion. At once cool and calm, but obviously reserved for fear of showing that which lies just beneath the surface. The infinate possibility for human decency is lost on me as I superimpose my soul onto his worried face.
I have made up for him, for me, a story of endless torment, compassion, and eventually love. He may be but a single soul walking the gravel roads that line the interior of our corner of Earth, but his is a tale worth telling. I envy his every step like a man with no legs.
Who is he? And then, who am I? This entity in wonderment. This narrator, side character, reader and editor.
I have sewn for him all the seeds of success, all he must do for me, is take one more step.
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