The Repetitive Price of Purgation

Okay, okay, I feel guilty about yesterday's vacuous (if not unpleasant) photo-entry. Here's a little content for balance' sake.

I wrote this sitting outside the cafe one afternoon, using my phone and publishing immediately to Twitter. Micro-micro-fiction, I suppose. I was reading Cormac McCarthy's "The Crossing" at the time and borrowed a bit of the premise for the story from a passage in that.

a note: each sentence had to be 140 characters or less, as is Twitter's custom.

-The Cost of Things: a story (inspired by McCarthys "The Crossing")

-A man dreamt each night, less and less, of the casual beauty and her smile since losing sight at twenty-eight.

-He would feel sometimes, wandering here and there, at stranger's faces, but never pictured any but hers.

-Now old and beset only with his cane, the clothes about him and sturdy boots that cradled ancient feet, he ceased to dream at all.

-Wrecked between world and reveries, sleep having lost its lure, he called upon a man of tonics and oils.

-A tonic prescribed, promising to restore dreams and their contents, cost the same as sturdy boots, not more.

-Unshod and set in thoroughfares' dust, his mind's eyes saw what carried further than feet.
And carried thus, more and more, till no more sleeping could be had. (The End)