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werewolf
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he guessed if he had to pick a time he felt most natural, most right for all he said and did, it would be walking at night in the city. he would mainly be alone. every now and then people would pass like phantoms. perhaps they'd ask him for a light or a dollar or offer some weed or some company. sometimes he'd pass them by as the mumbled to themselves from some corner store bought slumber, turning concrete into a four-post bed. and even if there was a skirmish, or a momentary intersection, it was somehow forgiveable, temporary, his own life, theirs. everyone was talking to themselves, dancing, or rehearsing lines for a life that was tomorrow morning's and just too far to ever really get to. and so even when he'd get into an argument with some long haired dirty faced man, they'd be looking past each other, looking at shapes barely people, not even able to agree on what they were arguing about. and yet it felt peaceful, it felt right. like crawling under a blanket with no end. where claustrophobia was a childish memory, something to be left behind. and he really thought it was his destiny. it seemed hard to work each day and mean it, to be the person he was to this guy and that girl and this co-worker and that lover and this kid and that wife, because he was always waiting on something. he could envision it even. he'd wake up one day, and it'd be that time of night, that time he always walked. he'd start walking, and it'd never leave that time. he'd just keep walking on forever, stopping into dark corners and leaving them, walking on forever.
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040317
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