My eyes were two dead clowns found floating in a still lake.
The skin of my face was pale and half-cooked pastry, a “Bourbon puff” as it’s called.
My belt was invisible. My pants did not fall, so the assumption could be made that I did, in fact, own a belt. A slab of lard hung down an inch past the bottom of the beltbuckle.
That picture could have been taken at many times during my life. It would show a guy courting death in an on-again-off-again relationship. I was addicted. Fat. Depressed.
Was that “Before?” I guess that depends on making up an arbitrary timeline. Before what? A “Before” picture of a human being might show two teenagers behind steamed-up windows in an old Chevy. The “After” would be a gravestone.
We are all in process, inhaling and exhaling and repeating. We choose more life or more death, and if we are honest about it we know the whole thing is a cycle.
Will we die? Yes.
Will we live? Yes.
How much?
When?
Christopher Shelby 