chapter one - work in progress

Chapter One

Regally, the oblong man came forth from the shadows. His slight sway and erect disposition was hued with moonlight and his equine face was pitted with darkness. The only thing that stood out in Markus Eden’s mind was the tap-tap-scrape of the man’s hard soled shoes upon the frozen cement beneath his feet. At a glance the man seemed out of place, but at that hour when early morning meets late night none strange were ever about; Markus knew the man must be a part of the city. Tap-tap-stagger went the man of a million unknown names and an ancient gust of frosted air rustled up the shabby tweed mackintosh that he had wrapped about his person. Markus was cold. He paid heed to the robustness of the man as he came closer and to the off kilter hat that sat atop the man’s head mirroring his drunken swagger, but still it was the tap-tap-scrape that kept his focus. Markus, in the proper form of one drunkard to another, with a nod of the head offered:

Hullo.

But no retort came of the man, just tap-tap-scrape. He was gone and past, as the summertime frolicking of flies, and Markus’ eyes returned to the sidewalk, that lay before him. Another night was slipping by and he was wallowing toward his bed. Where are you off to old man? What are you? I am a canvas. I am a lost dream; an empty glass. I am the underside of a stone. And I dream of a day I could know; a day that beckons my breath and not the wind’s. Who is emancipated, living to die?

The tree top Avatars sat in silence. They watched. Am I the same as you? Am I the same as yesterday? Does this lazy sidewalk mock or make us men? We all contemplate – whether out of want or not – the things we need not know. I know what I don’t need.

The smoke from his cigarette drifted lazy to the sky, and all slept quiet as Markus Eden cut the street. The mothers and fathers shared their beds, and the little boys and girls were tucked away to dream of their new toys. It was a lovely week since Christmas and the classrooms had not yet called the children back from their holidays. Still were hung festive lights on many homes that had been put up earlier in the season by mother’s instructions, but not where Markus was. Where Markus made his way was dark. And he knew his dark well. It was a good dark. As all things wound down, and as all things kept still, Markus clouded himself within winter’s discontent. He knew the beginning; it was yours to uncomprehend, but he could show you. It could be shown to all if any look. He kept walking. Walking. Waking. He saw the daytime’s things of beauty in their natural state; that darkened state that was all around him. Nothing is quite as clear in the dark, and that is true beauty. Nothing in the dark is fixed, as noting in the light can flux. To see both the fix, and flux is a love often pushed away. It was all in front of him. It was an offwall fall and an empty cup that sat broken; it is, and that was that. The buildings around him were at ease. His breath was climbing to the heavens. Slow he stepped, and fast he thought. Those late night moments were his happy hunting ground. Brevity is a beautiful curse. His sneakers were starting to wear; he had worn them a while. Simple things boggled his tired brain, but he was always true. True he roamed and true he would sleep, but these things seemed not worthy to you. You were wrong though. Worth is to all things, to all events, and to all nothing mores. He lived. Lived he a bleak banishment, but not so bleak as yours. He was a choice. What are you?

Markus watched the snow fall; it twinkled around the streetlamps and he sighed. Where are the happy times of my beginnings?

Pretty thingy. Crawly. Call you Charlie. I see it. What’s that? Its a friend. Down the street I was. And you know what? I know what. A doggy. Black doggy. Big. I was a spider at the park. Never fall. I can climb all the rocks. Black rocks; like the doggy. Charlie made a pop sound. Squishy - squashy. I missed him. The swing was fun. Windy. I can. I can swing higher than anything. Wee!!! I did the slide. It is a red slide. Slide red. Red. Red. I like green. The grass was wet. I saw it hiding. You know what? Know what? I saw it. Verrumm. I’m going to get a car. You know what? I can. I can. I can climb the rocks. Dad stands behind me. I can’t fall. I’d let him be a spider too. He could. I can. The sand hurt my lips. Tastes bad. Bad. Bad. I want a park. I know what. What do you know? I’ve seen it. I seen it. It. I like the tire. Spins me, my dad. I have shorts. I live here. Do you know what? What? What? I saw a cat. Meow, he told me. He was nice. I liked him. But he ran away. I can climb anything. Does this remember me? Maybe. I like the park. I can run. Bright sun. I’m a son. He’s my Dad. I like the park. Why is it a park? Do birds need to mess everything? I’d get in trouble. I get in trouble. But I’m right. It’s ok to not get in trouble. Could I stand on a tree? I can climb anything. I read after the park. I’m good at reading. I don’t like writing. Hurts my head. I like tea. What tea do you like? I keep a rock in my pocket. Do you know what? Jerry told me. He did. He’s my friend. Friends are good. I don’t like school. Do you know what? I cut my finger before. It hurt. My eyes cried. Do you know what? I bet I know. I know. I knew. Knew. New shoes are good. I can tie my own. Do you know how to tie laces? Do you know what? My Mom’s at work. She’s a cook. I can’t cook. I can though. Do you know? I got hurt, but only a little. The tree pushed me out. I can climb anything. But it went crack and threw me. Stupid tree. I don’t cry now. Then I cried, but I don’t cry anymore. Babies cry. Do you know what? I’m a spider at the park. On the rocks at the park. Do you know what? I can climb anything. Anything. I don’t fall off the rocks. Do you know what? I like to jump. Bump. Jump. I go to the park after school. I have a green bike. It’s my bike. Bit my toe before. I didn’t like it then. But I like my bike. Do you know what? Papa is my Dad’s dad. The Lady is my Dad’s mom. Irene brings me chicken and ice cream. Do you know what? Grandpa Howe took me in the boat. He likes to fish. I don’t like to fish. I catch frogs. I can climb anything. Do you know what? I broke the mirror, but I never told. When Dad got hurt I told Mom to ask Harold to help. They make us prey in the morning at school. I think Harold is a good guy. Do you know what? I know. White line. Up. Jet. I like airplanes. Do you have an airplane? I’m going to go in an airplane. Do you know what? What’s that? What’s? Do you know what?

Markus felt ransacked. The night had taken everything. His strides were shallow, but the course was long. He had to keep his feet alive and move. Above him trees sang a supple song to canopy the sidewalks and to distract his wandering brain. The day was coming fast; his slumber was soon. I am bound to a million inferiorities as I am bound to this human form and still the only thought that I hold dear is of my bed. How I dream of lush slumber slipping behind my eyelids; yet, I am wakeful, but not quite awake. Around him small houses – totems of eras past – and gloom riddled apartment buildings were a labyrinth. Is the Cyclops await for me? Has Nimrod forged his way out of hell – shackles broke and lain aside – for Babble once more to be built? I can see the tower. This time it is built of the damned. Broken bones and decaying flesh hold strong by the wasted souls of humanity; a mortar God would wince to see. It shadows the world; as a brook, bloodred, runs swerve to bend beside its ominous glory. I hate what we’ve become.

Ahead of him his past was splayed upon the ground. The teardrop drip-drop dew upon the morning leaves was a bright yellow memory. The sun was a chilly fire, but that chilly fire was not deceitful like the night before it. That was why he feared the sun. The nighttime lied. Moon shadows were monsters and the voices of the dead would skim your brain as they walked toward the rye fields. Whose eyes could tell? Were we the ghosts or they? Markus was full of tremors and trepidation. His home was near. The blasphemous stare of wrought iron railings were upon him – a school of eyes hid in a sea of toes – as Markus cumbered to ensure stability. I can feel the crimson in my eyes. I am not stable. But his home arrived at his side un-fractured; he climbed the rustic cement steps of the suburban forest dwelling, keyed the front door, and was inside the belly of his quarters. Out loud, Markus chuckled. This place I’ve come seems to frighten, but more nothing I feel than fear. Redpetal love was not upon the place; it was a strange lead to a cliff. The last temptation of Christ. I lose faith like the rest, but not alone is faith the force to drive. I will keep to the drive. I need not love. I need not fortune. I need not know where I head. I need not those things as a badge. It will! By these words come to the fore! As whiteplumed angels sing sweet the songs of joy across the way I write the world of truth. In truth lay God. In God lay pain. To discover and to pass it will to be mine in the end. In the end. Unenlightening the enlightened as the globe spins off center for those who were built to see. I will see. I will see it all. Continental drift is the first sightseeing in the sun. I am of the sun. As all. All are. Closed the night and opened the day for the light to see its course. How to it will run I; me? Seen to see, I will try. But the vent or the skag of an outside other was to first be buy. I am alive. Step strait straightsteps to the sanctum sanctorum oft’ fall, but look to get back to upward the climb of your youth. Yet, youth is ignorant. Their path quest is divine, but must in known keep if to gain. The trick: A trunk of toy-like memories make ease within without. It will be mine to show…

Markus swayed.

The ravenous silence overwhelmed him. I need to feel. Ennui. I am a canker; not wicked, but unwelcome and persistent. All is linear here in my room; existence is time. Yet, it seems wrong. Circular is the soul. Metempsychosis. Transubstantiation. Transmogrification…

Markus’ apartment was a tomb; he was comfortable there. Four walls. One roof. A hollow feeling of isolation – the center of his contempt – was what lined the atmosphere with springtime orchid petals, baby’s laughter, and the acrid stink of lingering (half digested) hopes. These hopes reverberated through the empty masses, passing beneath his open window, and into his disgusted nostrils. Markus Eden was the room. A smile curved his mouth as he placed his head atop the pillow that would support his dreams through another sleep. Markus was the room. They were his curtain.

Now as never. Unconscious. Milkwood as specters, paradox seeps into the vein. All cloud. A Ferris wheel. Always alone. The glow circling the welkin; keep the children in awe. Over and under, wonder how many times? Eternal. Vico? These are the ways. And which ways wander toward a half-eaten slice of pizza on the ground. Wax paper transparency, gentlemen, clenches the old and young. But as a voice. Who’s voice? The loudest voice rules the day, but it is night and quiet. Taping. Tapping. All along go: The wives of Windsor, the Mad Hatter, Alice, a giant peach, Tom Thumb, Hanzel, the Cat with his hat, Grettle, three little maids from school, thing one, thing two, Rosencrantz, Horatio Hornblower, Mother Hubbert, a queue of rats, Gilgehmesh, Doc, Dopey, Sleepy, Sneezy, Bashful, Happy, Grumpy, Athena, the Pied Piper, Gildenstern, the Cheshire Cat, Odysseus, Adam, Eve, Archimedes, Merlin, Arthur, Paddington Bear, the brothers Grim, the brothers Marx, the brothers Karamazov, Annie Oakley, Buffalo Bill, the Lone Ranger, Santiago, the dish, the spoon, the cat and the fiddle, Hephestus, Humpty Dumpty, Tweedle Dee, Tweedle Dum, Robin Hood, Winston Churchill, Ringo, George, Paul, John, The Green Lantern, Dick Tracy, Deadulus, Sisyphus, Lady Macbeth, Clifford the dog, Mike T.V., Carface, Scarface, Violet Bulregard, Augustus Glup, Veruca Salt, Syd Barret, Charlie, Arthur Rimbaud, James Dean, Walter Kronkite, Peter Mansbridge, John Gault, Howard Rourke, Henry Rearden, The Holiday Dragon, Puff the Magic Dragon, Lenore, Sam I am, Fiver, Hazel Rah, Big Wig, Othello, K, Mother Goose, Ernest Hemingway, Poseidon, Hermes, Aphrodite, Aries, Curious George, Dumbo, Abraham Lincoln, William Lion Mackenzie, Mark Boland, Rascalnokov, Archie, Jughead, Alexander Graham Bell, Gabriel, Gatzby, Charlotte, Scarlett O’Hara, Arturro, Ophelia, Lancelot, Gwenevyre, Morgan LeFey, Holden Cawfield, David Copperfield, Max Fischer, Jaques DeMoley, The Wocket, Findow, The Nook Gase, Wasket, Zlock, Euripides, DaVinci, Cleopatra, Medusa, Helen of Troy, Zorba, Rasputen, Alfred E. Newman, the Queen of Hearts, d’Artagnan, Machiovelli, Pound, Cinderella, Prince Myshkin, Atila the Hun, John the Baptist, Muriel, Blanche Deveroux, Stanley Kowalski, Pierre Goriot, Hirum Abif, Jacob, W.C. Fields, Elvis, Michael J. Fox, Juliet, The Thane of Cawdor, Ovid, The Blue Meanies, Piglet, Dylan Thomas, Smokie, The Bandit, Piggy, William Wallace, James Joyce, Samuel Beckett, Anthony Burgess, Virgil, The Million Dollar Man, Hunter S. Thompson, John Milton, Pooh, Tigger, Hitler, Kennedy all three, The Mayor of Casterbridge, Athos, Porthos, Aramis, Roo, Richeliu, Tolstoy, Thomas Wolfe, Don Quixote, Don Corlionne, Matthew, Luke, John, Gogol, Gallagher, The Hounds of the Baskerville, The Horsemen of the Apocalypse, Steinbech, Papillion, The Wizard, Edia Armin, Toto, John Ford, Henry Ford, Ford Madox Ford, Gerald Ford, Ignatius Reilly, Peter W.W. Smith, John Kennedy Toole, Pinoccio, Old Moes, Gipetto, Hector, Ahmen Rah, Nepertiti, Homer, Fuzzy Wuzzy, The Man from Nantucket, The Sleeping Giant, Pope Clement V, Buddy Holly, Ayn Rand, Pacos Bill, Andy Koffman, Charlie Koffman, Frank Zappa, Harold Ramis, Ben Stein, Michael Landen, Hoss Cartwright, Ludwig Van, Chett Atkins, Prometheus, Evelyn Waugh, E.M. Forrester, Mahat Ghandi, William the Conquerer, Alexander the Great, Jim Morrison, Babbitt, Henry Thoreau, Buddha, Nietzsche, Jack London, Mogley, Montgomery Clift, Marlon Brando, Dweizel Zappa, Galsworthy, Taylor Caldwell, Nimrod, Lucifer, Michael, Ronald McDonald, Pocahontas, Sitting Bull, Gironimo, The Duke, Mr.Ed, Wallie, The Beaver, Joan, Buzz Aldren, Neil Armstrong, Bettie Page, Betty Boop, Betty and Veronica, Betty Davis, Bette Middler, George Jetson, Jello Biafra, Nick Cave, Allan Duff, Grimace, H.P. Lovecraft, H.G. Wells, Napoleon, Betty White, Estelle Getty, Bea Arthur, Rue McClanahan, Tsun Tzu, Louis Rieal, Donna Sommers, and I twist the turnstile – dirt caked silver hands outreach and topple in turn – and flood the fairground. Pass by the troll-woman toll-woman; notice her sad hands plump and stamping wrists: PAID. Miss the two bits. Her dejected lazy eye muffles the grunts of the happy boys and girls already inside, but wander deeper. There is music; joyous and deranged playing slow. Not slow like a waltz, slow like a record with an index holding down its progress, but still letting it speak. In one hundred years, know, the trash and song will be an anthem for all. Shed a tear. Gloom. Despair. Joy. What stately discontent. It is something not admitted in words. Fate? Allusion? Is it all within; there to remember?

Feast aurally and ocularly this occlusion, that mind is built. On all sides alive. But the world is collapsing. The index presses harder. Feel a weight. Feel a breeze. Feel the cold dew of the evening. Feel! Feel upon these things; these horrible things; these wonderful things; these empty things… Thunder screams. Jump. Look round. There is no one. Is it odd to fear alone? All left is a puddle. Ringlets run away from heart. All left is a puddle.

As the dawn chased away the dreams of night a little boy was tucked again away. He would awake a man, he always awoke a man. No more were the innocent intentions of childhood ingrained, but forced; no more were the dreams of future full of hope, but jaded and lain aside. Markus wished his dreams back. Forever longing am I to back have misplaced away those that were mine. He was confused in the morning. I am myself in the morning. In the morning, he was mourning his aim. Will it be? Will it be! That which is not yet mine might one day be. Again. Again he saw a hope in the distance. Careening waves of sorrow broke upon jagged rocks of actualization; in the morning Markus had hope. Each day, Markus wanted those things that might be. Silly dreams; I have a tear for you, but it shall not fall. He was none more a child than a dead man. One day again Markus would be both. One day again Markus would feel. One day again Markus would understand. Markus would, but not on that one day.

He was on his back. What voices he heard as his eyes peeled awake. Sunbeams, warm and alive, were tip-toeing across the bare walls of his room and across his bare chest. Markus longed to still be asleep, but the day had to begin at some point. His bed sheets were a toga as he sat up to face the world. Markus could smell the afternoon bleeding in the streets and had the taste of one too many whisky and sodas on his tongue. I feel empty. Tumult was the afternoon. Busy – busy. The ceiling was a bleak canvas that captured his attention and he reached for a cigarette. All there was silence or chaos. Poverty had no middle ground; it either screamed or said nothing. The baby next door cried. Screamed. Too the adults screamed – shouted – at times. But most were silent. They, as Markus, knew that the screams did not help. Gentlemen, there existed no means of comfort in poverty. The poor were poor in spirit. This was no knock at the rich, but merely an observation of the poor – of whom Markus was one. He regurgitated the evening past as a cloud of smoke escaped his lung’s clutch; an evening as hazed as the smoke. Memories were a noose. And Markus hanged himself with the fragments of a life that no longer existed. Life ended with every sleep. Markus turned toward the kitchen to make some coffee. Brown gurgles – the sounds of waking – were his taxi-cab to humanity.

Humanity was lost though…Dead. Men were cockroaches; shadows. Markus saw them, but they didn’t see him; They lived, but would never be alive; They created, but only to destroy; They shouted freedom, but embraced their jailors.

There was no freedom.

Markus saw a one room apartment, dirt, futility. Why are we here? I am here because I must be. I am allowed no short death. Death is not my freedom – not my escape. There will be no crucifixion for me. I am among the herd, but not a part; I am a poet, but have no pen; I am a daydream, but not a thought; I am a man.

He looked across the room at the tilted old timepiece that wall hung itself years prior. Tattered. Markus heard its tic-tock talking. Saying nothing. He crossed the carpeted floor, in his shoes, toward the heartbeat and saw his reflection upon its crooked face. His transparent eyes watched him look back into them as though they were a stranger’s. Markus wished they were. Then his hands, between their fingers, felt the precision of time handcrafted as he pulled the clock from the wall and sent it plummeting. Seven hundred twenty minutes shattered and sprawled upon a sea of dank rug. I’ve never liked that clock. I am sick, but not as sick as you. In his head grew clarity: action lends to clarity, but I’ve no pension for action. It is the calm after a storm. What storm rains hard enough to clear the mind eternal? Action is temporal. I am concerned with forever. So, Markus returned to his coffee.

Nausea, light and lasting, wilted his morning fortitude. A collection of unwit is building within my walls. Wobbled he toward the window-porthole with half eaten sentiment and nogood intention to regaze what he had lost. It seems no different to me; the out there. Markus counted the breaths of his contempt once more.

Silhouettes of men and women passed through the streets. There was rhythm in their feet; a loud bunch of shadows, indeed. Markus closed his window to empty his world of their noise. Words, those I know and those I do not, hover over me. He tasted the empty page as a child with a lemon. I have no one. But solitude is the maker of men. A sweet smell pulled at his nose: there is something I want. What empty souls Markus saw before him. I may well be empty too. He paid no mind. It is another day. Another day it was. He saw time and space conquering the entire world; it was in the faces of the old, it was in the laughter of the young, and it was written upon all who entered there. I mean to bigger things; things I have in store behind the daily mind’s eye rambles. Those things, that parents write off their children’s dreams are the things that I cling myself to. Families ruin men. A child is taught that any thing is achievable, but a man is called a fool for dreaming. Every parent kills their child’s dreams. It is reality to suffer, to struggle, and to settle. It should be a parent’s duty to applaud and encourage, but humans fear accomplishment that is not their own. Envious are parents of the offspring with a voice louder than their own. It is unintentional, however malicious. There is no one way to build a nest, as there is no one way to suffer this wretched world. Live. It is all there is. One shot to ruin your life on your own terms; take it my child. For if you do not it is all a waste. I would rather a fetus hanged than a child’s dream stole. Kill the human if you will, because a fate worse than death is a life without hope. Markus readied his shell for the world: clean shirt, shaved, brushed teeth, etcetera. The midday world was his. Markus was alone. He could feel the silence of his room; it swelled around him. He was an observer. He began to hear the untended cries of a baby. It was his neighbor’s child that again cried. I would cry too if I were born here. How does one end up where they are? I will not long stay in this place.

Into their world Markus made his way.

Trickling through at ease he felt the city streets. Ongoing, life was around him; whizzing cars, walking suits, shitting pidgins. Markus hated the city. He watched the city. He was the city. But it was a lovely kind of hate, a hate years in the making. Markus was married to the city. Markus was alone in the city. Everyone was alone. The streets were alive. I’ve got to have an aim. He set off toward the city-beast’s heart, zigzagged around the people he met, and roamed inward to find a destination. God, are you there? Sometimes there is nothing to say. I am always unsatisfied. Markus could feel his tongue grasping at the empty air for even the slightest syllable of thought, but there was nothing. He was dreaming of another way. Life is a plague. The thinkless thoughts of my generation amble aimlessly about. And I condemn. I am a ship lost at sea. All brains on deck! All brains on deck! Batten down the ideas, raise high the standards, and hold firm your ids men! A clearer sail isn’t there here. Rough waters, men. Rough men, water. Cold mist violent sprays over the bow; no hiding in the stern either. Are you a ship, or a raft? A tanker or a tug? A float or a sink? No wrecks here, men. Wrecks, no men hear. All is a storm. Lightning upon the sea is a real ender; hot water from the cold depths. Deep are the veins of thought now poisoned. We must. I must. Turn, Captains, away if you must; you must. Ride the crow’s nest to hell. And let me see the rainbow at the end of the gold. The mount we will crash, is the mount that will save. Save us starved, save us ghosts, save us weak. Sing this, the dove’s song, as the lot is through pecked for sustenance. Keep the helm alive. It is the first judgment. It will be beat unto the stone; and it will be carved unto the drum. No silver cord loosened, no golden bowl broke. This long home is now. Hell is upon us. Think depths, to the salvation, if need is in the air. Heirs are too long out-looped. Outlived and forgetting are the eternal trues that know too where to run. No more. Run no more. It is a storm. Do not fight the weather – as you would not fight the moon – enjoy and gaze, and weather the weather… Yet, I am torn apart and unsure of the answers that I seek. God, if you can, help me to clear in my head the right way I am to follow. Markus decided on tea.

Rose petals, out of season, taunted his eyes from their window sill beds. Lush. He could not smell them, though he did see the still un-dried water they wore. Markus pictured them tumble to the ground at his feet. He would walk upon those petals and, for a moment, would be a prince. Where is your Duke? You would ask. Markus would reply that he is filling his cart from the dumpster behind the building. A suiting Royal for this city would be the Duke. His carriage would clank and vibrate upon its small black wheels as it turned out onto the street from its loading point. It would be a parade. Toothless hellos and stained waving to the plebeian hoards in wait of a glimpse. The Duke would be the helm; the Prince would be last in the cartage. Many times Markus had dreamt of importance. The Duke has the confidence for us both. He knows his place, but your Prince is lost. A pigeon overhead fluttered and became a dove. A single feather floated to the ground. Where was the band? This hierarchy required an anthem. There would be shouts and horns, there would be whirrs and vrooms, and in the distance there would be church bells sounding the hour of prayer. Prey for your Prince. But so few pious remain that there is not enough prayers in the world to help your Prince. His crown is not of thorns, it is of paper. God, was it you that abandoned us; or was it us that abandoned you? I think the latter. Markus hated the city.

Coffee houses: brothels of pretension. Markus sat at a table. The room was a buzz and he enjoyed the anonymity of himself. College students – Markus’ age – flexed their rhetoric and self-righteousness. All quotes. Why? He thought often of why he was not them. But what cliché am I? Would he endure harsh weather and make pithy comments only? I am not that cliché. He was poor. Was that a cliché? Evil? He didn’t think so. Everyone I see is a cliché, I suppose. It’s just what you like to do that makes you, you. Markus liked something; he was sure. He drank much coffee and tea. Excess. Why? Because. He doubted his ability. I am no soldier. I’d imagine I could wind up an impoverished working stiff. There’s a cliché for you. But I know not what I want. Something must plague my soul. Are there answers to take? I hope that there are, but where do I search? Do I search within? Do I search without? Is the point to be found? Is the point to be fought? He could not decide. Markus wished it was easier. I wish things were well. I don’t think it matters anymore, but I will do my time. My time will come, but I am scared that I will never leave a mark. Little marks ,like family, are nice for some, but I’ve always wanted to leave a mark big enough for God to see. I wonder if that’s possible. Markus had been contemplating death. Not suicide, but mortality. It is strange. To die, it seems, is inevitable, but what comes after that? What is nothing? The concept is, in itself, an impossibility to picture. I hope there’s a God. I wonder if he will like me. I’m not sure I like me. I’m not sure who me is. I mean, I know my name and address and all that, but what makes a person? What recesses of the mind is there to understand who I am? What am I about? Where am I going? What makes me: me? I am a mass of particles with a mind. My mind is made of gray matter; that gray matter is full of synapses; those synapses run electric currents through them to create motor functions, thoughts, and memories. All that means nothing though. I need to know who I am. Who am I? Am I a good man? At the bottom of it all, I guess, we all just end up becoming what we accomplish… I have accomplished nothing though. I am no exception. I am as they are. Their books, too, are in my head; my library is mine though; share not what loves you and what makes you love. A man’s heart – my heart – must be a vault. The key is lost. He tongued the backside of his teeth. A nervous habit. They were not straight, Markus’ teeth, but were never been braced. My tea is good. Green. Chinese. A small pot, smaller cup, and Markus were friends for a while. For a while. I am at the end of a tether; I know less of the world around me than the world behind me. O! History that is our maker, make me a room with a view. It is easy to look back in the mirror, but I feel I am looking through a wall to see today. Perhaps a sledge? He was wrought with these thoughts at all corners. Markus sighed, leaned back into his seat, and tried to detach from the abyss that he was. Yet, the insecurities took hold again. I feel existential…



















































































- Hello Mr. Eden said a familiar voice. Does the table welcome guests? It was Liam.

I suppose it does.

Good table. He pulled a seat beneath him. How are you?

Well enough to look down on you. The two men laughed.



Liam was a friend. An odd shaped man with a razor tongue; Liam was a blessed experiment went wrong.

Haven’t seen you for a while, Ren. Where have you been holding up?

Same place.

Oh.

What’s the world got you up to?

Ah…Well, the rounds are still being made, but I believe we should be at the Viscous in a hour...and of course by us I mean you and me.

The Viscous: a home of ill repute like no other. Why?

Sounds, my friend, and beer. There’s a couple of mine playing there tonight. Fluffy stuff, I suppose, but a good romp with the gang never hurt.

I suppose you’re right Liam, but I’m done with the spends.

Never a penny fell from the sky I wouldn’t share my friend. Let’s drink to remember and then forget. A true Greco evening; at my purse.