he wondered once if that old bottle would actually be enough. he called it a “vacation fund" for the end of this small little adventure, except even he didn’t know when it ended.
he brought along no sword, no axe. this was a silent trudging, you see. no pride here, no hope. just that continued slouch into the darkness ahead, torch still lit more for safety than anything. he knew the monsters already, knew when and where they would come.
and so he treks on, that small bottle slowly filling with loose change and loose dreams, the cavelike walls of the silent city surrounding him, nerve impulses flying overhead on the municipal power lines. the maze has him caught, or so he begins to believe. he begs for a quiet alignment, the medicine he keeps swallowing supposedly attempting to give him a skeleton key.
it seems more like the waking dreams are the answer, the days at the beach and sitting along others with empathy, observing and occasionally participating.
only time will tell.
