Day of the Dead imagery left his eyes raw. The more he saw the more he knew that his universe was to be shared with the man sitting next to him in every empty dive bar as he made his way across the fruited plains towards the rocky shore opposite of the side he started on. He was running on. Words flowing freely from his mouth, lost lexicons of lavish engagements fighting with drunken slurs. Things would never be the same, state dinners, you asshole. Between nights spent huddled on the floor of the bathroom and mornings swilling coffee he played games in his head. Nothing exciting; a simple repetition of the events that lead to an existence that didn't fit the plans he had. An aggregate of all that had transpired, he desperately searched for a single event that he could pin the failures to. Trapped under glass he examined them all -- wings cracked with the copper pins holding the times and places. Framed on the walls of his insides were hung photographs of sights he would never see. Wax sculptures of the feelings he would never know adorned the halls of the ever expanding voids. Without a map or sense of direction, he was free.
He wandered the desert, in search of the promise land, but found more sand and less vocalizations of his future than previously sought after. The sun setting (softly illuminating the contours of his hallucinations) killed his desires to keep on. Falling, he settled into slumber // into an undisturbable sleep.
Dreams can be deceiving. He revived his urge to move forward, and up he rose. Fighting onward, eventually reaching his land of milk and honey. Even as his followers thinned in numbers, famine, disease, and brutality wreaking havoc on the chosen, he maintained a strong lead, and kept his composure.
But dreams can be deceiving.