𝐇𝐀𝐋𝐅 𝐌𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐃 𝐌𝐀𝐍 𝐌𝐀𝐃𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐘 , who’s fingerprints can be found in the lines of him ? who’s hands have changed his shape ? twisted and bent around something , can it be called grief or is it just another type of yearning ? grass , half crushed beneath boots has wet old leather with morning dew , clay , red as the sun has caked his feet , his hands , his face. or is that just another type of blood ? SO CLOSE AND YET SO FAR FROM DEATH. the sun’s light is a sharp line cutting across the tops of trees , a canopy of emerald bisected like lace , or a butterflies wings , shadows cast. there’s a body , isn’t there always ?
just flesh , just another wound , just blood to be spilled. he is unused to working with others. UNSOCIALIZED: he was never taught how to play nice. jim corrigan reeks of alcohol , half cut at a crime scene , his breath could light a match and still he thinks , sweating vodka in the early morning light , he could use a drink. one day , he thinks , one day we will still bleeding from that first tender wound , he thinks , until then there is no right way to be holy. the air sounds like the beginning of a storm and he lights a cigarette , grey-blue mingling with pale gold , dispersing into the air as ghosts. “ it’s always the crazy ones , huh ? “ he gestures , limp , the perennial mourning of a man who is both orpheus and eurydice. “ it makes you almost wish for a normal stabbing or something. “ the wheat field is a sea of gold in the light , gently swaying around them , waves washing them to shore , he sees red seeping into soil and thinks of a seafoam blood. “ then again , they wouldn’t trot us out for something that mundane. “
