Parting Shadows--and The Wrath of a New Semester.

Here I am admits a wave of self scrutiny looking for something to write about—but what—characters are vanishing things. So are the memories that try to rekindle life via the word.
I do remember a few things however—that kid freshmen year who cloaked himself in leather—face white like a ghost, scraggly facial hair and lonely eyes without a single tinge of color in his iris. It was said seeing him just sitting there in the cold Montana night exhaling the worlds troubles in spiraling debris of tar, nicotine and whatever the hell else is labeled as dangerous on those palm sized cigarette packs—but why—why was it so hard to realize a more honest reality at the time? He was like a festering sore that was visible, but would only be disinfected by the apathy of others, and the loathsome shit talking from the few women that came into contact with him. He was really a sorry son-of-a-bitch—that I never got to know—except the minor sketches I have assembled tonight. I suppose he happens to be easier to write about because of the vagueness that looms his character, which affords me the luxury to speculate out of imagination—(him, contemplating some devious sexual encounter—that will never happen—I, the author reflecting some of my faults onto him.) But there he is again wandering the fluorescent lit halls of the odd 11 story resident hall of my imagination—looking for sympathy, rejection, empathy—just some human emotion to reassure himself that he is there, and he does exists. Pardon, he did exist—so far he is just that distant object of a far way a place that I shall never return to except—in the blithering iron incrusted section of my soul that finds time for sympathy—when I do not.