Wednesday, September 03, 2008

These are the most teeth that he has shown in a while.

Laying across dead animal skins, fingers laced behind his head, cradling what little thoughts manage to slip out of his ears. Just letting the sun soak through, wondering how the hole in the roof came to be, but not caring.

Meteorites have a way of finding their homes, planting themselves in dirt and dead grass, coffin-worthy grass.

For the first time in months, he is smiling.

For the first time in years, smiling never felt so wrong.