An Echo.
Ameer killed himself and everyone came out of the woodworks to grieve, like that human instinct to latch onto whatever is momentarily shining brightest in the sky. Onto the next bit of glory once this one burns out, carrion in a river of carrion. God, he was gone, and every time that crappy Campbell's painting van went by your eyes went straight to the "AB" he had wiped on in primer with his finger. You were never, ever going to see him again. Not ever. And at the memorial when Todd W. said, "Ameer watch over me," you wanted to break his face for being so shallow, you wanted to knock those big teeth right out of that empty head. All of these matters of consequence and the ticking of clocks, it all goes on but Ameer is still 19, that damn "AB" still rolls around town, a whisper, a whisper.
We have got to stop living as though an outside force imposes meeaning on the world.
We have got to stop living as though an outside force imposes meeaning on the world.
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home