He is
The morning was a weird one. He could have sworn the people next door were admiring him through the wall. He was being consumed with schizophrenic episodes and the devil had started it all.
The Moldy carpeting. The mismatched, sparsely furnished room. And his drinking at dawn Mother. The imaging is hard for him to grasp because Kelly and Michael live! blared hello from the seriously outdated idiot box.
All he could muster up after mommy said "When you getting a job, here want a beer?" was no. He would have said more, but they said she was the devil. He found out one day while sitting on the couch that she was only his toy.
The next diabolical plot for the light of the world was to crash into the daughters car. The guy really had it coming. That dog was so damn cute.
Once she got scooped off the pavement, and the dad got the nerve to identify the decapitated corpse of his only child, the light got over it.
On to the next one because he didn't care. He pushed aside all the feelings, even when his convictions stabbed at him. His emotions were one of the greatest tools of manipulation that what ever devised against him. He was the light after all. He just didn't know how to be the one that heresy found. And he wasn't supposed to quit both times the light looked up.
His selfish desires of the flesh. The pursuit of warmth. To eat, to breathe. To think. None of that was his and he needed it to survive .
He was born in one of the first industrial revolutionary towns of America. Colonists and immigrants. Where once the Cambodians jumped out of a Toyota Supra and beat him to a pulp.
Lowell, Massachusetts.
The birthplace of the most irrelevant, but necessary existence of the world.
That morning was new to the new him. That morning. The bed in the room. The day the light found out that he was the cold.
He remembered now as he left the crack pad, that he wanted to call the FBI and see if they were the ones in that car watching him across the street from the phone. The voices of his mind we're carrying conversations that he cared nothing for. Because nothing matters to the one that it was supposed to.
The fact that he was a bad example, and that his actions prove quite easily just how much of a Walking Dead contraction he was, was hard enough for him to be aware of. The terrible things he does. The lack thereof any emotions for anything of the world he was charged to save. Because nothing mattered.
But they did.
He never had a dog or a mother. The voices in the walls and the TV were there to keep him company now. But the voices always lied.
Author's Note:
Thank You for reading a tale of a man of one much different. He is a Characature of another.
The Moldy carpeting. The mismatched, sparsely furnished room. And his drinking at dawn Mother. The imaging is hard for him to grasp because Kelly and Michael live! blared hello from the seriously outdated idiot box.
All he could muster up after mommy said "When you getting a job, here want a beer?" was no. He would have said more, but they said she was the devil. He found out one day while sitting on the couch that she was only his toy.
The next diabolical plot for the light of the world was to crash into the daughters car. The guy really had it coming. That dog was so damn cute.
Once she got scooped off the pavement, and the dad got the nerve to identify the decapitated corpse of his only child, the light got over it.
On to the next one because he didn't care. He pushed aside all the feelings, even when his convictions stabbed at him. His emotions were one of the greatest tools of manipulation that what ever devised against him. He was the light after all. He just didn't know how to be the one that heresy found. And he wasn't supposed to quit both times the light looked up.
His selfish desires of the flesh. The pursuit of warmth. To eat, to breathe. To think. None of that was his and he needed it to survive .
He was born in one of the first industrial revolutionary towns of America. Colonists and immigrants. Where once the Cambodians jumped out of a Toyota Supra and beat him to a pulp.
Lowell, Massachusetts.
The birthplace of the most irrelevant, but necessary existence of the world.
That morning was new to the new him. That morning. The bed in the room. The day the light found out that he was the cold.
He remembered now as he left the crack pad, that he wanted to call the FBI and see if they were the ones in that car watching him across the street from the phone. The voices of his mind we're carrying conversations that he cared nothing for. Because nothing matters to the one that it was supposed to.
The fact that he was a bad example, and that his actions prove quite easily just how much of a Walking Dead contraction he was, was hard enough for him to be aware of. The terrible things he does. The lack thereof any emotions for anything of the world he was charged to save. Because nothing mattered.
But they did.
He never had a dog or a mother. The voices in the walls and the TV were there to keep him company now. But the voices always lied.
Author's Note:
Thank You for reading a tale of a man of one much different. He is a Characature of another.
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