Just as his cheek twitches, just before he slips into sleep,
he thinks about what he thinks people may have said about him
during the day, and he grimaces.
‘His glasses are old, and he holds himself poorly,’ all the girls
laugh at the jokes the jackass smirks out. Well, they aren’t jokes,
it’s just how he observes the world, he states, waving a flute filled with
(what else?) champagne. It’s his second, but before that, whiskey, a bong
rip, and a beer, roughly in that order. Now he garners attention, he gathers
affection easier than most and this includes our protagonist. He is an anathema
to the easily disrupted, to our hero.
Our hero disrupts the best he can, this bad man; sheep go to heaven he’s heard,
and though he no longer believes in the place, certain dead family members he can’t
quite place in oblivion. Our earnest hero, he plays the passive aggressively, better
than the rest. He hides the toys, he shuns the warm gestures. They’re too late,
and now he’s asleep, and snoring, and happy for eight short hours.