But I am fearless, weathering a storm that will not cease. I think this is death, or Lou Gehrig's Disease, and I know I'm edging close to something. Just a head bobbing on black tar, teeth and broken glass refracting light off the Bud cans in puddles of burgundy, and the eternal silence of screaming, happy faces topped off by old-time religion and Stetsons. It's only Sunday, just another Sunday, but the sky is clear blue and the honeysuckle licks the air. Monday morning I cut open my eyelids.
Blood squirts across the sink and hits the shaving mirror like a full, fat white-head popped.