The two greatest of human fears, and they are my two eyes. I see nothing but them, fluid and rocking as waves or a hammock above jellyfish waters.
You are my best friend, you are my best friend, you are, too, and then he shoots them all dead because they are just mutts—worth nothing.
They are loneliness and death, and though they are as much an abstraction as the word love, the most intangible is the most often the most real—truth, words, though they can be copied, treated like a steak through forms such as “syntax,” you can never taste it again once it leaves your lips. She will never cry for you or come knocking on your door. His last words were intangible, too, and inaudible, gone as if they weren’t even let out of his raspy, calapsing lungs.