Move

Staring at the carpeted floor,seated on the warm hotel bed.Bent slightly forward,both palms clutching loosely on the gun-fingering the bold,straight lines that lead to the dark opening to which there is no visible start or end.

He contemplates,in the cold heat of a rainy morning-only the dying flicker of a red glow from outside illuminates the harsh,tragic features of his face.He breathes heavily,chest heaving,but on the outside he is calm.His existence is frail and quiet,it flows into the walls and travels into the outside wind-dividing painlessly into tiny particles,surrounding and touching this and that-strangers,bicycles,rats-but quiet and unfelt nonetheless.

He craves an adventure,but remains in one he can't escape or easily solve.The roads stretch with every step taken,the horizon fills with the complexity of skies that change their shape and colors.His mind is sharp and ready,but the enemies they are all lurking somewhere he can't see,they toy and feed but they are not confronters.They might not even really be there,it could simply all be him.The past,the future,everything and nothing,it could all be a silly trick.

But he refuses to wait,he leans back to stretch-crunching noises,he opens his mouth wide to take in a huge breath that fills his lungs with a momentary sense of lightness.Then he stands,and leaves the room with the gun in his right hand,his heart eternally tireless and fiery.