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2003-11-12 || 1:23 p.m. || in times of war or fatigue || he wears his t-shirts so tight you can see him breathing, his belly moving convex to concave, and you could almost make out a heartbeat, like a little moth lazily attempting to make its way past the well-worn cotton. he always wears a hat and when he took it off for the first time in my bedroom i felt kind of honored, or shy, looking at the top of his head and expecting to find a halo or a horn or the imperial headwear of the infant of prague. he holds his breath when he sleeps. there is a tattoo of a map on his back of all the places he is destined to go in his life, and there are scars and inexplicable pin pricks of light in the places that he has missed traversing his personal timeline. i don't figure into any of the places and don't mind. i'm watching him run a marathon with a cigarette in his mouth and a fifth of whiskey in his hand, and the job celestially bestowed upon me, whispered in dreams and moments of comfortable silence by angels or ancestors or dead old men monitoring our respective progess by charts and stars, is to be around to let him lay his head on my chest when he gets tired and out of breath. guestbook || notes || archives || profile || photos || d-land |