This is in the diorama, washed over with street lights reflected back from the mountains. A weak breath passed away in the shape of words talked by an aging man as he walked into a knife fight armed with useless memories of Hyakutake from 1996. The knives were paper thin but the wielding fellows made grunting and machine gun noises as each jabbed at the other. The nuisance cuts were just a diversion or a way to fill time. It was better than tonguing the opening of a beer can while discussing the political fields. It was better than being pals in a confined space with still too much room, to nag about filling it with something new. There is a lot of time to fill between comets. Compound curse words hovered in a blob of atmosphere while the aging man repeated falling to the ground over and over telling the other fellow, “This is how it done.”
Just like that. “This is how it done.” Real weak and quiet.
The other fellow was a track star, an abuser of heroine. Despite his slow pace, he was real good at pressing his tongue to the back of his throat to gha gha gha gha machine gun phlegm. He said to the aging man, “It about time I kill you old man.” He made his arms in the shape of a prize fighter’s and lunged at the aging man as if they were an old married couple on a saturday night long ago, spilling beer in the grass, just disagreeable enough to choke eachother out as a whispy comet hovered above.