His brown eyes open, absorbing every experience that has been his to know. A looking back, sorting mangled bolts of history.
His story. His remembering.
With dying hands he strokes the threads that have unraveled around him.
He blinks, and he lets a single teardrop glisten on his lived in face.
There are miracles and there are no miracles.
Either way, the prognosis is what it is. He knows everything he knows and yet he knows almost nothing.
Tall buildings and concrete streets. City traffic on major roads. People. So many people occupying the urban sprawl. In the midst of all this he speculates on any number of significant resolutions.
How cold his heart feels! How resigned and dark are his thought patterns!
With gratitude, perhaps, he reminds himself that one thing often leads to another. There is neither rhyme nor reason to what is to come.
And when the droning that inhabits his thinking becomes too loud to hear, he can shut his eyes. Close them tight. Let his eyelids be his entire world and sit like a rubber hammer banging nails into his heart.