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777 words
As I write 777 words at any non-chalance glance which depreciates the value of...seven hundred and seventy six words to go. Akin to the morph of sharks lain prone to see on the seashells of Aqdibar a non city of non people go to lay their meal at the heart of Denali only to linger forth on the fascist pig that Molly calls Babe. Five hundred and fifty two words in and the sirens will sound and life as we know will be life as it's always been and will be forever and ever amen. Charlie does the chalk drawing against the dust of midday at the crossroad of Mediocre. Fog is dust and dust is art in light of the young boys mind. The sharks, he says are God lying down to sleep to see if we fear death. The blonde of his stringy short cropped hair cling to the ochre ridges of his best and most favorite outside shirt that mommy calls his monster on his back. Because even she could see the path that that boy took from two corners ago and halfway down Falago street 6 years back and four jumps around Jimmy as he turned the corner of Pine and Broadview looking as Dean as any with fedora slanted down and as his heat rose up. Dusk has come as quick as the devil that resides in this endless town for this endless boy in this summers fog on 9th street. Molly calls her Charlie in and they play the radio with Pete since Jimmy was never seen again but lives on in the caller of sharks and sleeping Gods that see death as we fear of the ever opening door of life.

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