I see the light in his eyes, the buzzing, carnivorous light. I see the years of emptiness and his unfaithfulness to hope. There is no hope in those eyes, not really. Not even desperation. Just a blindness and a fury and an exasperation that he can’t understand what it is he is feeling. It’s cold but it’s also rote; rehearsed to the degree that it has become real. He can’t separate himself from feeling… or not feeling. Some people may call it sociopathic, but I call it a vast wasteland of emptiness. And there isn’t anything more frightening than peering into the eyes of someone who doesn’t even know who or what he is. And
wrapped around my
Some may have calculated the circumference of the earth, but to see a stainless steel cable surround your foot, anchored to the armrest of a ’61 candy red Thunderbird is to give one an overwhelming perspective about the size of the real world.
“You bein’ a very bad kitty.”