Another Day.

He wakes up. The plane is still missing. The cat is still scratching the couch. The trees are still covered in ice. There is not enough food in the fridge but there is some food in the fridge. He draws some pictures. He reads about mens’ rights and he laughs. He wonders what happened to the Khorosan Group and concludes that they must have been a concocted fiction and he wonders why a fiction had to be concocted when there are plenty of real threats in the world. Perhaps it was just more fun for the military industrial complex to make up a new enemy that sounded like Hydra. Maybe there are fans of Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. Perhaps they all think they work for Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. He drinks hot chocolate and he takes some photographs. He tries to care about work but he is tired so it is hard to care about work. He cuddles and that energizes him. He reads about the 100 years war. All he knows so far is that it wasn’t called the 100 years war at the time which is unsurprising because why would they call it that why would they think it would go on that long. He wonders when this century will be called the Century of Terrorism or The Neverending War or The Forever War but perhaps it is called that already. He weighs himself. He is not happy with the result but he is accepting of the result. His hair is thinning on his head. It is not thinning anywhere else. Hair is growing out of the edges of his ears. He did not think that was even possible. He is resigned to this. He is glad he is getting older. He could not have dealt with these things when he was younger. He was a sensitive youth. He is being  hardened by age. Not too much but enough to survive. He thinks that this is a good thing. He goes to sleep.

Published by

The Sleepcoat League

Armchair anthropologist, sometime scribe, freelance philosopher, amateur artist, part-time poet, musical maven, alliteration aficionado.

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