//the new //the old
//and
me //connections //if
you're leaving // the honours
//the usual
He senses
that Nicholas
Is not completely
in Reality.
He want's to help him.
I close my eyes to blink but keep them closed for a little longer to keep the anger from pouring out. I purse my lips to keep the anger from taking form. My brother is no crazier than you, Mr. Holy Man. Mr. Holy Man who dines with prophets and studies psychology and knows about these things. These things that are lights.
They turn green when someone steps out. Of Reality. They blink when the person who steps out of Reality approches Distance. The green blinking lights say, "Mr. Holy Man, help this boy. Who is not. Completely. In Reality."
Mr. Holy Man, you can keep an eye out for these things that you know. The green, blinking lights that speak to you. You should keep an eye out while I keep my heart out to this boy that I love but cannot help. Who you cannot help. Where he completely is, I do not know. But I know how he is dressed wherever he is. His shirt is woven out of repentence. His shoes are made of new-found will-power. I know how he smells wherever he is. He smells of lingering guilt and regret for time lost.
But Time won. Time won in the Game of Youth when Time played my brother. Maybe he wasn't aware of the rules. Maybe he wasn't aware of the game. But Nicholas lost. Youth lost.
And this is the title of the song my brother sings when he sings wherever he is, wearing his repentence and will, and smelling of guilt, regret, and loss.
And maybe wherever he is not the Reality that you call home, Mr. Holy Man who dines with profets, and converses with green, blinking lights. Maybe the wallpaper is different there. Maybe they don't let him put wallpaper on the walls. Maybe the air is different. Cold, elderly, and rank with sins and the cries of their commiters. Maybe they don't call it Reality. Maybe they don't call it anything at all, because, maybe, they're too busy breathing out desperation.