Kimura 1
We took a walk.
A long, quiet walk with a forty-five.
If after that many miles, a hundred thousand sleeping breaths of numbing, bitter breeze, you still have it in your hands to chamber a round, it must be fate.
"If you're not chasing, or being chased, you're nothing. Nobody shoots at nothing, but nobody writes its eulogy either. What I'm trying to say, I guess, is that you should always take that walk. Don't speed to where you're going. It might be the last steps you take -- it could just as easily be you, or me. Oh, and Charlie?"
"Yeah?"
"Sorry."
"..must be fate."
you never really know how far that little memory-movie would sink into your stomach, or when it would set in.
Sometimes you watch them slouch to their knees, gurgling, trying to stay upright, lurching and twitching like failing hydraulics--life imitating art, I s'pose--and it beads off your psyche. You can pull your coat up and keep it out like the breeze. The blood on your hands soaks into your pockets just fine.
Sometimes they sink into you, soak into your stomach in real time. Their fading eyes ask things, and you hope it's not 'please. Their pale lips say things, and you pray to god it's not 'thank you.'
Sometimes you drop in real-time with them and relive it for years. Sometimes you kill a piece of yourself with the same travel of the trigger.
'Two birds, one stone
wing clippings: currency
staving off our own.'
Sure.
