When you’ve moved on from the memory of someone who’s chosen to vanish, and other thoughts fill that vacated space in your mind-even if you attempt the remember the little features, if the eyes were slanted or deep, wide things that contained all of a man’s heavy, tri-colored soul, or if one lip was bigger than the other so the face carried the bruised, tough-ass-motherfucker look of a retired boxer-details are taken over by new details, and it is under this terrible cycle which most people, one way or another, get consumed into perfect irrelevance-that is, until God or the clockmaker/dreamweaver/Armadillo King and His universe turn around, lays its retribution in the strength of a faceless stranger.
He instructed me to sit down, even with a table separating us I felt little to no reassurance-I knew what this man was capable of, while others toiled in universities and offices to learn skills to earn a salary or survive the modern world, he had no such concern and was born with a pure and natural kind of violence-it was there in the grip of his fingers, his pose of a bendless spine and even more unwavering mind that knew just one objective-no games or tricks or theatre of any sort, though evidenced by his wanting us to sit down, rather than marching straight to business-he was willing to delay gratification, instead a conversation lay first on the night’s still murky agenda.
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