we found it all quite remarkable, the brokenness of him, the spittle and the remorse, the mockery of all that he was, the stain of his children, the wounds of his wife. he sits on the porch and writes and abuses himself. he is all abuse. little kindness left, selfish mongrel. and the air he breathes, cool and dry in the midst of a full blown summer, reminds him of a time where he was alive and she was alive and their days were long and they had their future ahead of them and he was pure and uneventful.
but instead, instead, instead.