Hey, Jupiter.

I sit. As always, glass of wine in my hand. Deep red. Dark. Silence surrounds the room and swallows me. Not to much to talk about.

I stare straight ahead. As if transfixed. I stare at the wall. At the Seurat painting we bought together. I'm heading down. I know. He knows.



So I'm just sitting.
Waiting.
In the silence.

"I believe that uh...people who are going to commit crimes shouldn't have guns."

-George W. Bush

Snow Cherries from France

I sipped the wine from my glass as I watched the lips of my friend move. He was talking about his journeys that summer, and what has happened since we last met. I listened so attentively as he recounted his trip to Dublin and around the coast of California. The sun was hot, and I felt it on the back of my neck. The lake ahead was blinding.

The wood of the dock was starting to burn slightly, so I moved to the edge and buried my feet in the water. My friend lay behind me. He lifted himself slightly and said "There's no trouble with us. We go day to day uncovering the dark. We can't notice how brave we are, or how fast we run."

He then lay back down and stared up at the sun, which was just starting to set.
The sky was the rose color of the wine in my glass.
His words walked with me back up to the house.

Sometimes I think I understand the fear in a boy, the fire in a man.

7 a.m.

So it begins again.