he said, to himself.
the sun was down
and a storm was brewing...
and it was that time
of day called night when he would walk
the streets looking for faces and stories
to fill his notebook with.
so later he could place that book
and it's coils under his pillow
and by osmosis, dream for lost ones.
but that is jumping ahead.
he clicked his poser
motorcycle boots
down Culver City Boulevard
stopping for a taco
and trying so hard to make eye contact
with the regulars and the lonely
instead of fantasizing of running through
brick walls
and reappearing in '39
to search for Scarlet with a tribe
of little people
but that is besides the point
he was on a mission...
he was going to dig a hole
and what that hole was for
had no bearing on anything
that mattered.
the only thing that mattered
was he was searching
for a mystery to solve
because he was tired of his own...
so he falls down his hole
like film noir alice
in a fedora
worrying about
anything but himself
digging deeper and
deeper still
hiding
refusing, with all his might,
to give up
time travel
for the rain.
