There were galaxies in those eyes, he could see them,
staring through the ether at him in the middle of the night and trying desperately to find him, keep up with him,
but every time he changed his address,
he moved to fast, and all hope to reconstruct fabled promises of the
past, seemed to evaporate in the crisp air of winter. He was cold as a frozen lake in winter, alive
underneath the surface, but his surface veneer was a thick layer of ice. His
eyes told their own story, not galaxies, but universes of things that could
have been, but may never come. But, yet, he pressed onward, against the current
of opposition, for what reason but pure, lucid thought is always better than to
not think at all.
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