The Owl

In the morning his stomach is an awful sensation. Snow is congealed along the sides of the roads into drifts like tallow. At work they are hammering nails through the back of his head staring, and with suspicious whispers. It makes him want to cry being so alone and his stomach hurts always. His home is a hole in the ground where he collapses like a cigarette ash and swallows wine until he can stand again. It's bizarre and monotonous in life, and bizarre.

A time that's empty like 2 a.m. he is meandering the staccato sidewalks. Gently it is sleeting and he finds a pretty young man accidentally walking circles around a construction project. It happens unconsciously, his jaws unhinge and there is a bloodless scuffle in the dirt and wet. He walks around some more but his body is twice its own weight now.

He is vomiting on the floor. He should remember this always happens and he doesn't want to see his face in the mirror. Hundreds of bones and the other man's hair and his clothes all disgusting and molded together with phlegm. He doesn't want to be like this anymore. He tries to go for another walk in the morning but the sunlight and glare is too painful so he sits in the snow under a tree. If he closes his eyes that is like being killed, which is probably what he wants after all.