Always past tense, existing somewhere under the deep horizon. His thoughts squandered on frivolous matters when there is such a world available to him. Sitting on a wooden stool on the back patio. A moss-covered statue of an ancient soldier presides over the border of the wilderness, alert in a triumphant pose over an invisible downed foe. His stone head held high against the weight of the thick green confusion of the forest, whereas Nick curved his back under it. Seated with an absence of color in his eyes for all the majesty of the world.
Nick patted his pockets,
"Damn. I left them inside."
Pushing off from the wooden bench, yawning, he went back through the glass door. The matches where inside in the jar that also contains his keys and occasional parking meter change. He picked up a book at random from the shelf.
He slid the door and slouched back down on the stiff bench, pulling a white paper from his pocket. The book on his lap, the long version of Les Miserables.
"Hmm," he grunts, musing.
His hands worked in trained precision. The mechanical movements of an expert out of training. The rolling and tearing apart of stems and crushing together THC crystals, all intertwining. Weaving a blanket. Digging a hole.
Lights a match but looks at it until it burns out. Lights a new one to spark his joint.
He sits there musing silently. Waves of colors wash over him in simplified terms. New theorists expand and develop in his head.
"Is this living in the now?" he asks himself.
A bird collides with the sliding glass door behind him with a powerful sound. The bird twitches on the ground briefly before flying off in concussed movements.
"Hmm."
