I can't really say as i blame him though to be fair i don't think so much that i care.
That's horrible to say, i know.
Man lives his life best as he can and when he dies there ought to be a better way to speak of his days than with the casual indifference of a freight train lumbering into the glow of old factory smoke.
But, fuck it. i'm still going.
And he can rot in hell. ascend the stairs. haunt chapels in some twist for the atheist that brought him up to not give so much as a shit for the tears of a woman who once loved him.
And might just cry out from time to time when she's succumbed to warm devices for him to be the one there to comfort her. to kiss and caress in that sweet awkward way that assured his distance from the pedants he called friends when he wasn't so hellbent on offering drunk spit for a handshake.
Foul air for bland hellos.
Strange manners that kept them whole.
Their idles shift and vanish into thin strands of argument. tongues lashed to iron. spendthrifts clamoring for wishes before the coming pales of winter where they once stole whiskey shots in front of the tree.
The dog, sleeping.
The city sights shut.