It turns out that in spite of the paralyzing irrational fear that may have been the exact right number of days to be away.

Yardsticks will vary. The measurement may have been off by twelve hours or so. Either way it’s only a datum and a passing point of curiosity.

For this moment I am alive again, one fortynine in the post meridian.

I was expected to leave about now and go scattering my head again, but sometimes a warrior transcends expectations, or even more often digs through the mud underneath them. Emerging from there, it’s not a civilized look, but mine are the only beholder’s eyes so far.

Moving. From a week of nights here to a week of nights there. Without their base currency needed to power me. Roaming the lands of the junipers of Genievere where the snow drifts harsh and unexpected. I will not ever be a soldier. I don’t aspire to aspire to be a member of their tribe and gods help me I never will again.

Verbally separate. Your self. Grasping at this roof and that credit rating is the device by which you let the tyrants make you make yourself miserable.

I do want to be warm and dry when I sleep. I want a hot cup of Costa Rican when I wake. I’d prefer to remain silent except for the sound of this typing and I’d like the only eyes I look into to be those of my choosing, ever.

If you’re feeling and not just hearing my words now the name of your eyes is in on that list.