He.

He walked up the hill. Past gentrified houses and boarded up shops.

Past thoughts that slowly dwindled in the mind; tumbleweed.

An Old Western played out in his head. The Dark. The Light.

He.

He sat. On a bench. That looked out across the city. Not just any city

But that’s my secret. Guns were pulled. Pistols at dawn. Breathing.

He looked. He. And then felt the belly rise and fall. People passed.

He.

Noticed them as he would the trees. The air. The buildings. The View.

Oh The view. The view. When thoughts tire and gunshots fire. Opposing

Sides no longer reside. Breathing. He breathes. He is breath. Breath.

Trees. He… Remembering the days before language had formed.