It's fucking late, something to steady my hands, I hope, so I walk seven miles to the gas station, the blue dot my only companion. (But who is it?)

A pack, a lighter, a drink. "On the rocks." Butts trace my walk back to campus.

My phone rings and I don't answer it but not because I can't.
I set my imagination on the splendor of high places, rending my heart in the mire of loneliness, of self-doubt, of panic, while my body urges for the ordinary touch of a lover, of a brother, of a friend.

I wake up damp, I don't remember what nightmares were chasing me through my head, but my body does, it is still dripping with moisture, it knows I can't stop running because they're behind me even when my eyes are open.
I am talking about the ethereal effect of having skin hit skin, of knowing your only defenses are the awkward appendages attached to your arms, your fists against another's, and when it begins, it is only you, you and him, in a search to discover whose corporeal entity can last longest.

There's something lying in the reeds, God, it's on the tip of my fucking tongue, but what the hell is it? Nostalgia for what? What am I trying to remember? (It's the night at the hotel, when Fall Be Kind was still fresh; the Petron and the vodka; the killer joints smoked among the trees, cars on a highway providing the only soundtrack.)
And the child's body expanded and walked about and drew pay and lived its life untenanted, a thing among things, its self's soul so much vapor aloft, falling as rain and then rising, the sun up and down like a yoyo.

I am sorry that the Worst has arrived.
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