It’s about 110 Fahrenheit down here, maybe more. It’s not raining though. This is his spot. He is here every morning, sleeping atop all his worldly possessions and that pile gets smaller and smaller by the week.

I’ve more to say on this.

Having given it a few more hours, maybe there’s nothing else to say. Maybe saying anything else would diminish him as a man, and not fer nuthing, that’s about the last fucking thing he needs right now. Some dickhead pontificating on his life as it is now or where the came from and what led to this. Nah, not going to do that to him.

All I know is I’ve watched his pile of things get smaller and smaller. Maybe when there isn’t enough to anchor him he’ll disappear altogether. Wait no, there is one other thing I know. I know that nobody looks at a baby anywhere and sees this future/present. Nobody can look at a baby and conjure this.