Running is a chief pleasure. There is no pleasure in this solitude, so well protected but so little desired.
I think it is hockey season? I don’t know what sport is played in February, but one on ice would seem the most appropriate. It’s not sports now; a swell that big in the string section can only be from the soundtrack of a film.
I hear gunshots and shattered bits of dialogue, the trace of a leading man’s voice.
Has the bullet dug so deep that he will die, or is this only the part of the film where they are shot at but not shot down? He’ll be killed when it will seal their love, and she’ll be there to cry his name again and again through gracefully restrained sobs, the virgin whore with the heart of cotton candy. Soft falls the rain of love, terrible the reins of the heart, the reign of the living is short and full of fear.
An overhead shot, a stone floor, a hotel lobby grey and bleak. She cradles his head and strokes his dense hair, her fingernails tracing a procession through the streets of his furrowed brow. Now it grows slack. The floor pulls heat like a granite slab for his tomb.