We saved the world. We threw the last bomb into the crowds of rotting bodies and decaying brains. We crossed one final street and shut the gates behind us. We were safe. Or so I thought.

We celebrated—a fleeting, fragile moment of peace. Amid the laughter and relief, all I could do was watch him. He was in the center of it all, embracing everyone who had gathered around him. Then, I saw it—a trickle of dark liquid seeping from his jacket.  

My heart stopped. My joy shattered into panic, and my lips quivered as I whispered in fear. The world has already been burned, and yet—burned even more as my body slowly shaken in agony.

“No. That can’t be. Oh God, no—please!”  

I ran to him, my hands trembling as I lifted his jacket. The truth was undeniable. It was there all along. He had been bitten.  

I froze, panic gripping my chest. I choked until I could not breathe anymore.

He didn’t speak a word. He didn’t have to. His eyes met mine, and I saw everything. He knew. He had known all along. He had insisted we go to Churchill Street first, pushing through the pain, enduring the wounds inflicted into his tired body. He wanted to make sure we were somewhere safe before it all happens. Somewhere where the night isn’t a nightmare
—and then turn into one of those lowly rotting bodies we used to aim our guns with.

“How dare you, Sid!” I choked on the words as tears streamed down my face. Before I could say more, he collapsed to the ground.  

“Can you sing me my favorite song?” he whispered, his voice soft and strained.  

I opened my mouth to protest, to beg, but his pleading gaze stopped me. I nodded, holding back sobs, and began.

“Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful  
Beautiful boy  
Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful  
Beautiful boy”

As I sang, he reached into his pocket and handed me a pair of eyeglasses I had been wanting for so long. They weren’t my usual prescription, but I took them, holding them to my chest as if they were a piece of him.  

I cupped his face and pressed my lips to his, tears mingling with our fleeting touch. Then I lay beside him on the cold ground, holding him close as I finished the song.

“Goodnight, Sid,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “See you in the morning.”  

He smiled, content, and mouthed the three words we used to say to each other before every battle.  

“Sleep now, my beautiful boy,” I said, my voice trembling with sorrow. I kissed his forehead and whispered a final prayer for him as his eyes slowly closed.

Darling time traveller,
no exhaustion matters,
when no time has passed,
when inspiration has struck,
and the dice have been cast
When late at night
in bedroom night light,
words come to you
unwillingly.
When your mind is too loud,
can't sleep,
you grab your pen
begrudgingly.
  
Darling time traveller,
it was never a choice.
Your mind will act if you don’t.
Writing stories in your head,
against your will.
In those moments where
time comes to a standstill.

12:53am,  January 3,2025
New York City
<>
A Traveler notates these words to my attention, but only because I make myself
a convenient target, for truthfully,
it is addressed to one and all,
to the royalty of:

We,

who speake out loud, to all those who ***** these damp woods full of wet words, that spring up overnight, ripe for the plucking, there for the taking, an exacting where & when they did not even exist
the twenty four prior

These purloined overnight creatures are

white and  black

lettered truffles, like the pages on which we inscribe, the letters raw, exquisitely tasty, shaved, measured in grams, but only when shared with others, in the privacy of our open minds, after being spooned from within us with exquisite care upon the pages that decorate our lives, sprinkled
with great care and cunning…

but when consumed, our five senses rage with aromatic pleasured pain, for these letters, so tiny, so powerful, grow only when
combinatory, individual bitty granules,
but when leavened, they enhance, provoke!,
they sauce, the

flavors  of the ordinary

of our experiences,
creating the extraordinary
when interacting upon
our five robust senses

for without the spaces of delineation,
our jumbled words are but the
random jingle jangle of the sounds
of night winds, rustling a tune
pleasant but incomprehensible

Here I take your leave,
with the liberty taken
for speaking in all our names
to a Traveler
who so succinctly captures our work,
the glue of our interactive Us,
Our,
Collective of Individuality

my days go quickly
my nights are quiet
in a morbid kind of way
the mind
the body
less will to move
have led my hopes astray
so many things
that are left to do
are buried in my dreams
things that once were goals to me
have faded in the seams
when the memories begin to drift away
when the body is in decline
take me to the ocean's edge
and leave me to my final line