Yule

Maybe it's the weather, or the throbbing of the spine - of rupturing disks, with stairs to climb the stupid hobbling, bent and twisting... The mirror's face, cracked and drying, grey... once bright blue eyes fading, a gunslinger's fate. Maybe it's the failures, the second-thoughts, Prufrockian¬†dissembling - time spent watching clock hands ticking, better spent … Continue reading Yule