Exhaustion grips the wheel in the man’s hands while anticipation eases his foot on the gas. The road he’s on is coming to a close and yet, he feels fine. Death, whether it be physical or metaphorical, brings a pureness to life that no upcoming fall can call its own. The man in the truck edges closer to his end and yet, he’s wearing a smile from here to there, glistening in glee, alongside white of course. If there ever was a time to stop, surely he has missed it. Beads of sweat become miniscule droplets of delight as he sinks farther back into his already carved out seat with fossil intact. Should he indeed make the trip today, he won’t be alone: A blazing inferno will keep him warm, the sounds of silence will heighten his fall, and a life left behind will usher in hope for the future. It is true, that in the final pages of a book, the author’s goodbyes dance before the reader, enticing him or her with images of a resolute outcome. It is false, however, that one’s final breaths can reassure the continuance of breathing, which in itself, isn’t so distant from the burning of a body. Ashes of the man may be found, his wallet, keys, and pin-striped business attire, not so likely. The death of this salesman is only warranted by one thought: his own. “To each his own” the cliché may read, but to own is each? That’s just a play on words. “People are strange” Morrison claims, and he is right, not because this thought is easily interchangeable, nor that the fashion of its creation is mooted in a celestial high, but because it’s everything a phrase needed be. Alas, the man has hit the gas and plunders to his new dawn. Inadvertently, we come to think that a man on a mission means more power to him. With attention to detail, the sculptor molds his man, one that without leniency, solemnly obeys his master and holds his head in his hands. In the darkest dawn, a storm has arisen in the mind’s eye and goes by El Nino, the child. This child runs up to the downed man, among the quiet crackles of flame and flesh, and lays a single flower across his flattened face. Always an inquisitive ball of energy, the child roams through the wreckage, talons in full check, eyes gazed unremittingly. She caresses the crater, in both hands, but steps on capriciously. Her wisp-like hair cools the sting of the air and replaces water with wine. Should the time strike its sleepless sorrow in the midst of a career, let it come. Two by two, he marches onward into dust, but not in spite of some rust. Orange discoloration of the fig tree grants the will to be weird. It’s ok now, the car has stopped, but the man does not: he let it come.