'My heart is a clock.'

He was a hollow person and it gave you a sinking feeling every time you looked into his eyes. Every new morning, I wake up. And every new morning, I don't want to but I glance at that face. Disturbed? That's not what he looks like. His appearance is, well...changing. Especially the curling of his lips. And his dark, dark demeanor. I guessed he would have looked better dead. That's cause of his flesh. Pale, almost sunken skin. You would think that it would shed if you stroked it. But why would you wanna? No one touches a dead soul. So says the earth. Changing... The only things that don't change are his eyes. They are purely blank. Blank and brown. Some would think that he's just dumb. But once they look at you, you know he isn't. You see that he's calculative. A dreamer...and you get the strangest feeling ever. You think...he's not dumb; not goddamn calculative...he's just an introvert trying to show that he's not. He'd tell you otherwise.

But not now. No. now's the night and he needs to wake up. The stars are calling.

He steps out barefoot to crush the grass that kisses his feet. Well, there is no other way to walk on unpaved surroundings. You walk, the grass succumbs. He looks up and the gods piss on him. That's rain. Okay, rain is beautiful and alive and not likely to be compared with some heavenly biological process but...

But. Wonder if every word that makes a sentence creates a few buts along with it. Questions, suggestions, and opinions. It's nice that the written word is mostly dogmatic. Another but- who is writing? Me, of course. But I'm not important. Not in the least. If you're apprehensive, you might be thinking that this shit ain't going nowhere. And maybe you're right. Maybe you should stop reading and honor the body you've been given. Good for you, he doesn't care. He just loves the rain. That cold rain that tears apart the skies after birth and stabs its cold fingers onto faces that look up to it. And then leaves behind its wonderful aroma. A perfume that goes by the name of petrichor. The rain is nice. Oh. She's here. And that is nicer. Looking lovely, standing there, dripping...He wishes he could see her in the dark. See those lovely dark eyes that always drenched him whole. And her hands, of which he would feel the warmth. Then her lips...they would curse he rain and then mumble her thanks that it was raining. Bringing them together. He reaches and she dissolves.

Question- Am I writing about him or am I writing him?

Meaning-am I making stuff up, or am I giving facts?

I shouldn't be writing...ah, well, I...

Stop.

Before the world breaks down, let me tell you something...

Come closer...

The guy in the rain,

He's Carol.

And he lives in inchoate hates.

For the night is dark and the day darker,

Let's sing before it's too late.

For the prison is strong, but the prisoners stronger,

Let's leave it all up to fate.

And dearest...let's fly.

Time's dead.

Let's wake up.

And die.

Tick, tock. Tick, tock...

Click