Long ago in the land of the happy and unlonely there came a wandering band of men called strangers bringing sorrow and welcomed in because misery loves company as we all now know.
A man waiting on someone to die drinks another cup, sighs and looks at his watch, the face everyone rememembers for its twitch and drooping eye, always running, always losing a second, an hour, sometimes a day, a year on the wrist of the dead.
Night, I love you like a bride loving her body, the madman the desert, like the horse loves its shadow, the sad the lighthearted, I love you like a wanderer his ballad, a poet his dark room, like the moon.
Somedays this whole that I don't feel is like a hole that needs filling. An empty space that won't let go. Another place I find myself in that's growing old. But that's the highway talking, because if I was a walking man I would have gone home a long time ago.