He rubbed the supple and smooth rope, a well used rope of hemp. In the bitter night air it felt like a dead snake. As he rubbed it, he felt the strands of hate and love coil together. Neither had any object or focus... They were simply a stimulating flavor inside him. He tried to grasp the feeling but it escaped, and he was left with emptiness that proceeds death.
The tears had been the secretions of wary spring. He was seven years old that year. By the time I used a gun to pulverize him at the age of twenty, he was able to face me squarely with a smile.
The smile showed me he was dying willingly, happily. It showed me he ought to die.
Through the blur of tears he discovered the moon. At first it was not the moon but it's clear, cold light that he noticed, which carried a slurping sound as if the parched earth were sucking I'm it's moisture.
