He carried thru the day shuffling vigilant eyes thru the center stage of the sky where the sun wiggles in between the tip of clouds to set and end the day. The traffic unzipped on the road and paved way, so he could drag his bones in their pulsating skin to his destination.
He studied sanctuaries of mountainous papers, and libraries of secret prayers but all he found were stunts and glimpses, advertisements wrung in stapler pins, and zero meaning. Yet again.
Does this cycle of discoveries make him less afraid to die? Make him more capable of last goodbyes? Because now he measures time in his head, binds hours in handshakes, and dreams at the blink of an eye. And he dreams forevermore of visiting those place he failed to see, his fingers pacing, and hair tracing the corners of his memories, ailing to stomach that slight twitch of the body that lapses in between states of sleep and awareness, and districts of travel and stasis.
Scratches permeate the membranes of his imagination in the concise cut of hope, and as he looks onward the indigo sea on his calendar, focusing his vision as the pages flutter from the breeze. His weariness hurries to the top of his lungs, and he cannons an exasperated sigh into open air, burying the days marked on the calendar, waiting for a howl of release.