By the light left in the evening, visable before their engines turned, and in his best leather stood Soto. His of that sudden finding, a rare and cramped compartment when in the June Moon could for the lack of any thought express when vision failed. He was old, about 80 or so and the truth of that not withstanding. His mind on the other hand witless, empty of sense, of pennies for any and the tempered introspection left frozen.
Yet to Soto, these needs of forming less given. He knew what was what and for him that was enough. Yesterday became the lesson and tomorrow the news of the new. So on to it, in his the cavernous cript. So on to it.
“Who do you mention might over there be?”
The old man leans toward a new arrival, slumping down against a pole.
“What face do they make for us?”
Younger by almost a hundred, the boy there misses his voice entirely and skips to pointing a fingar towards the last of todays light.
“You could do better, lad.” Spits Soto before turning away from the street. He is headed for the only place he knows, the only peace he will find tonight.
“You could do better.”
The young man watches as an old creep disapears into the bar beneath the road. For him this place is off limits. For him this place is aware. For him the founding lament of uncertinty wavers and wanders, unclear.
Yet before the creep has vanished completely he spins about in his grave; the fashion of fate is the despate, and all for this makes him more brave.
Categories: Matthew Newton