“A labyrinth is designed to guide a man into madness” His father explained.

The boy was no stronger than his father’s handshake, no older than the Latin word for pajamas, no more patient than a watch that clung to the neck of a grandmother’s wrist. The boy’s hands were neatly folded when he told the class that the Jews had actually “escorted” Jesus to the cross.

“Perhaps there was a man checking into an earpiece” He elaborated. “Accepting orders from God.”

It was 2:19 in john’s adult life, when he realized that his love for people was merely concomitant to his fear of rejection.

And if we listen close to the back side of a father’s prose, you can still feel wind chimes chuckle and blow down your back;dancing with kitchen conversations.

“Only I could know this house.” The boy interrupts, now clearly awakened in the misunderstanding of a premise. By then, the moral was all subjective; something his father had deeply feared.

In spouting, the boy first moved to demystify the arbitrariness of shower temperatures; hoping to betray the rigidity of thermal dynamics in the downstairs bath, but at some point, between identifying common variations in stairway paint and examining the attic door knob as a mechanical masterpiece, the boy had subconsciously prefixed the outcomes of his life, to the things which lived before him. 

One afternoon, when he’d grown as tall as a stop sign, he hunched to meet his lover beneath an old parking structure, which had matured into the color of old grass.  Tears were all but swelling, when he told her that he’d lost his faith in fate. “People have their reasons”, she softly tried, “and in a way, that’s kind of like fate.”

Her suitcase had a painting of a suitcase on the face. Affront the graffiti structures she slowly backed away as if backing into a portal. He cleaned his eyes and considered the endlessness of recursion. Why are some people intentionally awkward? He painfully wondered.

His heart was abandoning him like a car seat in a tumbling vehicle. She was leaving, yet somehow faced a direction that wasn’t the horizon. He watched from the groaning dimensions of an old farm window, wondering how he could replace the notions which are born from center.

“Sometimes stories don’t give us happy endings” His father continued.


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