there's a metal star that is wasting away on a hill overlooking interstate 81. it blends in with the surrounding area; you can't really even see it unless you know it's there.
and no one does.
i like to think that it is a signboard from god, and i make tiny little prayers on it. my religion is in curling wires and burned out light bulbs, and my lord is the same colour as the sky and the treetops. honestly, i believe that rusting metal has as much a chance as anything for inspiring faith.


there's a deer lying broken on the side of the road. it's sprawled in a shallow ditch with its four legs splayed awkwardly, hooves plowing tiny furrows in the dirt. the unnatural curve of its neck is so graceful and elegant that i want to tell someone but have nothing worth saying.


there's a boy who sometimes wears glasses and sometimes doesn't. he lets me talk about lunar eclipses and rest my weary head against his chest and keeps my possessions safe when i'm too drunk to care. he tells me, "you make me remember how lonely i am."


i think there is nothing in this world more lonely than iron stars deteriorating on mountaintops or fragmented deer kicking up red dust or sitting next to someone you love who also just happens to love you back.