He was always thought, or heard reading in books that if you walk up to mirrors in your dreams, you should look at yourself, and if there are no mirrors, you had to look at your hands and make sense of the pathways upon it, the scars of wrong, knife marks, fights and freckles.
Every time he went to sleep he thought more along the lines of how fat his wrists looked and how he gave up wearing watches because of this. His left hand had two large wrinkles in the wrist area that showed themselves in red irritated marks when he rested his head upon hand, when watching movie, or shifting though out the night his large weight upon the uncomfortable furniture.
His fat left hand. He thought, whatever good will this ever bring, might as well cut it off.
His cheeks over compensating and always catching every bit or light that fell from the sun, even in the most north of north of sun, where the light didnít exist in winter, would grow red, and make the socket pigeon holes of what eyes he had darker and white at the same time. The whole process was an ill effect on the one skill that he did not own up to and that was the skill of talking and storytelling.
Maybe somewhere along the line he imagined himself as perhaps the greatest Santa Claus to ever live being fat and red cheeked of course, but in other places in his love of humanity he saw himself as an asset.
A bumbling fat, semi drunk asset, but yet still informed with a mind that worked well with the well-ist of them.
Himself never really fitting in, but yet just enough to get by.
He found himself, and his fat little toes in some of the best places fat little toes could have been, the places of the has bens
Warm and good. Cans of chew lined up and bottles of rum.
A woman who loves you.
And then he turned off the computer and went to sleep, where he found his hands and a mirror, and a fat wrist and all the things that made him believe
She rolled over and she told him