He quivered in his shoes. His only shoes. And, as he did so, he wondered how he would ever get out of this life without peeling his skin away with a blunted knife. He held the knife right in his hands; his warped hands; the hands that stroked and burnt the sails from his dream vessels…and he felt it slip away. There was no atmosphere…only dust, glorious dust. True, said a voice. Bollocks, said he. And he waited for other times, distant and near. And he saw no joy. And he saw no fear. Nothing. Nothing but an empty sky; no stars, no air, no dark, no light. There was a hand on his shoulder. And the hand was dead but it clutched a message from an old life. And the message was from a million lovers. It was from a million lovers. And as he sent the glass spinning, spilling, wine across the laminate floor he remembered what she had said to him.
He loaded his gun.
He sat in the dark.
The smell of dinner swirling in the air.