The man today is worth it though. Nondescript per se, I only really noticed the darkness of his skin because of the clear crystals hanging from his neck, shining bright in the sunlight. Like black leather. I had my sunglasses on. Still, he looked me straight in the eyes and motioned towards the horizon with his. "Look there," he said. He had sunglasses on too. I look. The sky is thick with wispy clouds, miso soup blue, the sun's still high, but I catch it in the clouds, just off the blinding ball to the left. There's a splotch of rainbow in the wisps.
"Ha! I see it!" I say. I take my sunglasses off, and the spot disappears in the glare, but when I put them back on, it's right there. "Incredible," I say.
"It is isn't it." Dozens walk by in either direction on the choked boardwalk. It's the weekend. I smile at him, and he smiles back. He doesn't even try to sell me anything.
I got to keep walking though, I'm late for work. I turn back to him, "Hey, good looking out." I give him a thumbs up, and he beams at me. Maybe I am going fucking crazy, fast train on old tracks maybe, but I remember this feeling. It's a soul-flutter. It's the presence of a mystic in my midst. Immortality? I'm sure of it. He's made for my words, and he wasn't the first, and it's funny to me to catch a sense so specific like that; a universal acknowledgement, a sign in black stone, a crystal omen, something that pricks the day and stands out.
Uncle Scotty's got it in spades. What a fucking legend he is; father, fiend, unafraid, he is. People might look at him and laugh to idolize, not me. He knows, he's seen most of what others only assume and watch on TV. He knows.
Fuck, I am going fucking crazy. The squadron's taking off.
It feels goods.
Sometimes writing is hard and I pull my hair out and I stare at the screen like staring at a brick fucking wall.
Sometimes it's not hard at all.
