shooter raze there are no postcards in the wild. just hope and fear holding hands. past a slew of assumptions and educated guesses, i never know who i'm going to see, or when they'll be here, or how long they might stay gone after they leave me. he came by again today. right hind leg still hurt but no worse than the day before. he shuffled onto the stage hours after a dream in which an abandoned camera caught him being killed and carried away by a hawk in the sun room of a house i haven't slept in for almost thirty years now. he must be the oldest of them all. there's grey in the constant night of his coat. the same patch of fur on his forehead is always thinning out and growing back in. i was thinking of otis russell shooting craps with eddie sawyer manning the table when i met him. he was a point guard in another dream that found me on a different night. so maybe the name means more than one thing. each time he stands tall to touch me it feels like something sacred has passed between us. i would make his pain my own to heal him if i could. i can only offer my shadow for shade and pray that friendship and food will help to hasten his convalescence. 240607 what's it to you? who go blather from