Whats the Point

He took clipped steps toward the end of the pier. A small brown bag lunch waited for him against the thick piling. Gulls gabbled in the foam. An ocean swallowed the warped horizon, easing somewhat the desperate expansion of his despair, which threatened to well out on all sides at once like an umbrella in his chest.

He deposited himself against the piling in much the same dilapidated attitude as the bag suggested. It was all a matter of gesture anyway. pirouettes in the void. He grabbed the bag.

Empty. His empty hand slithered wearily into the dull bag's ovoid opening to retrieve some slight weight of food. He hoisted a textured square of bread to his face and began to chew, his great blue eyes fixed upon nothing, a stupid song in his head.

An exhalation arose from his chest. When God's asleep, he'll rob the bottle. He though of the closed circuit of his father's life exclusively in these terms. The ocean winced, pinch by some dimpled distortion in the far haze. He chewed.,

Now what but the slow slide and continuo of existence to fritter with? The hated engine that drove all my longings to their public ends. He squinted at the ocean's visual tricks with a benign slyness, his eye drawing out the dense interplay of lights more intensely. A sugary bit of the bread had lodged unnoticed above his canine tooth until sweetened by the corrosive action of his mouth's enzymes.

He tore a hole in the bag irresolutely, leaving an uneven hole at the bottom.

With a smooth motion, he reached through the hole, took out the .45, and left a new entrance in the side of his head the size of a period.

He took clipped steps toward the end of the pier. A small brown bag lunch waited for him against the thick piling. Gulls gabbled in the foam. An ocean swallowed the warped horizon, easing somewhat the desperate expansion of his despair, which threatened to well out on all sides at once like an umbrella in his chest. He deposited himself against the piling in much the same dilapidated attitude as the bag suggested. It was all a matter of gesture anyway. pirouettes in the void. He grabbed the bag. Empty. His empty hand slithered wearily into the dull bag's ovoid opening to retrieve some slight weight of food. He hoisted a textured square of bread to his face and began to chew, his great blue eyes fixed upon nothing, a stupid song in his head. An exhalation arose from his chest. When God's asleep, he'll rob the bottle. He though of the closed circuit of his father's life exclusively in these terms. The ocean winced, pinch by some dimpled distortion in the far haze. He chewed., Now what but the slow slide and continuo of existence to fritter with? The hated engine that drove all my longings to their public ends. He squinted at the ocean's visual tricks with a benign slyness, his eye drawing out the dense interplay of lights more intensely. A sugary bit of the bread had lodged unnoticed above his canine tooth until sweetened by the corrosive action of his mouth's enzymes. He tore a hole in the bag irresolutely, leaving an uneven hole at the bottom. With a smooth motion, he reached through the hole, took out the .45, and left a new entrance in the side of his head the size of a period.