He was thirty, though he carried it like an heirloom: a cracked pocket-watch, ticking louder in silence than in motion. The man had chosen his exile carefully, a weather-worn motel by the highway, where neon buzzed like a drunk bee, the lights quietly beckoning. He dressed himself in anonymity: plain shirts, plain pants, shoes that had seen better days. But beneath the vanilla facade, he bore the fever of someone who wanted to be fully consumed, not considered. He had an unyielding need, so he went about satisfying it. Wilde might have called it aesthetic devotion. He'd only start past dark,… Read more