looking down at his hands he wonders aloud what has happened. the words dried up in front of his eyes like the parched pothole in front of his house. and he doesn’t know why the world could still turn while his heart has seemly stopped. maybe soon it will all go dark and he’ll be swallowed up by this place. another childhood tragedy only written about in newspapers. once is all they need. wouldn’t even take up much space. it could be cut at the last second for all he cares, just as long someone gave him the words he could never see or find or taste or believe. just once.