He stands there under a cold gray sky, wrapped in winter clothing
and remeniscint of a Space-X astronaut, a few months before a
spider bite and a brain anurism took his life, and I recall
thinking as the first flakes of a snow storm began to fall that
there's a certain loneliness to growing older.
Why would I say such a thing? Fuck. Broken castles I suppose.
I'm drunk again. Is that a surprise?