the vagrant's fragrance slowly vacated the premises with his desultory saunter. the worst part of insomnia comes when there is nothing left for the mind to consider, for the heart to develop, for the soul to continue. and the vagrant suffered such strife. he'd nothing left in his nose to pick, no bits of scalp left to scratch off, although if he had, his fingernails were bitten down to useless nubs, and his toes could not quite reach the top of his head. the townspeople were comfortably familiar with his presence in the quarter, some offered him coins and small notes though ne never solicited. many people even endeavored making sorts of associations to him, but he did not receive small talk, deep talk, or any talk at all. and peculiarly for a nomad, neither did he seem to talk talk. he just seemed to be perpetually expecting something to come to him. something unremarkable to anyone, including himself, but important enough for him to anticipate, with the sky as his chronometer, solar hours, lunar months, planetary annums. but he did not wait through minutes or by the hour for darkness to pass. he lingered in blank space, nothingness, a silent black eternity night after night. he waited. for someone, something, he never said, but as soon as dark fell he was sure to be out there, illuminated only by the fluorescent greens pinks and blues of liquor stores across the vast car lot on which he resided. He remained with patience, nothing left to imagine, going completely unnoticed or ignored by most passersby, unable to dream to pass the time, until he reached the end of each night. and every morning, with the split of the dawn sun yawning into the rainbow sherbet sky, he was gone.
why, why, my love? my self is weeping for your heart that must only beat while the rest of the world is sleeping.