the abyss between frames…a careful preservation of wounding.
Toro was not quite willing to admit that he had escaped to the mountains intentionally. It may have been that he hadn’t - all it held were strange, dark meetings, night and hate and blood curling in on his heart like a thorny vine. Suffering and death and not-death. The quiet incenses him. He can only think of these things and they batter his heart like a storm. There is so much, always. Just barely does he weather this world and its horrors. Today Hajduk prowls just out of reach and Toro is left on the edge of a cliff with the world on his shoulders. Our world, and the one he imagines killing him, over and over. He wants not to die but to cease existence. To float in the abyss without feeling would be freedom. Silence. Rest.
But not contentment.
The autumn sun lights up the stranger in a way the whipping wind cannot. His scarf is a nice color. Toro hears his question and does not answer, his approach halted. He thinks about Anzhelo.
This might not be a good idea.
He pushes forward through the wind and stops a few feet from the stranger. ”Suppose so,” he says. El Toro likes the way his hair flies in the wind, like a cloud rushing over the sun. He thinks his muzzle looks soft, but not cloud-like, too pink for a cloud but not pink enough for the sunrise. Pink enough for a living thing.
Toro clears his throat. ”I’m Toro. Shall we?” He nods towards the path, beyond them, high up and elsewhere. His intestines feel like the world’s most intricate knot.
@
"What I say,"
What I think,
What Hajduk thinks,
