He's apple juice, sweet and crisp and slick on raw lips, the taste in the back of his throat like swallowing sadness and crying for home. He's the sunset from the back of a pickup truck, the metal of a battered, rickety motorcycle pressed against the small of his back as the heat of the day bleeds away into the star-splattered atmosphere. He's chill winter breezes shivering against the back of his neck where his hair falls short. He's the tan from a life under the open skies of Iowa, running wild through the fields like the hellion that he is.
He's a thousand towns visited: the faces blurred, the music wild and breaking and mad, the languages of Earth and other planets choking up over the empty space where his vocal cords rotted for all those years, the world spinning away underneath his feet as he hitchhikes to the next city, the knife in his pocket in memoriam of the horror of Tarsus, for always and forever and for never to be forgotten. He's a quiet day stolen at the library with a