He turned and looked straight down the road. There was a broken picket fence – not white, but every colour in between that and nothing, layers of flaking paint – and he impatiently shook out a cigarette and fumbled to locate his lighter.
His eyes were green and blue and black, and he seemed half dead.
\”None of it is linear,\” he said. \”It\’s not a case of picking up on what you\’ve learned and proceeding uninterrupted from \’a\’ to \’b\’.\”
He sucked in and blew out and I followed his finger to all those broken gaps. Loose bridges in a contrived attempt to play straight and upright. Haunted jazz and unstrung piano keys.
\”Fuck that. Everything swims in and out, and the unlucky ones drown in low ebb.\”
He was actually smiling. But his teeth kept getting lost in his lips.
\”Some of them have lost the will to feed. The rest just never learned.\”
The hollow points in his eyeballs appeared touched by lunacy. But everything else seemed all there.
photograph from zowada custom razors. \’Cause I\’m chokin\’ for the excuse: