He is the cape of night, each distant start reverberating its worthless value, blinking upon an insurmountable blackness. He is the intruding call of dawn, an orange dim leaking into your curtains, tainting each part of the room with a remote, still sense of wakeness, an obligation for the fingers and toes, each whole body an actor, life a videotape. He is the song I hear, played from the recesses of my broken head, a place that I no longer possess, the Island of Implacable Things, this song whose words caress my old skin with warmth akin to company and nostalgia. There is a promise I made that noone but I remember, it is sung and strewn into the schedule of time, the dirtiest part of every hour. He is the silver tail of hope, a dream incomplete, one element of the man I would have become, had I not been born me. He is my hotelier, my other voice, assuring me that ALL WILL BE FIXED, that there is an outside to everything, and even if there isn’t, the belief of one day finding an open door, to the other side, will keep me from melting into the interior.
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