Another Pointless Emanation.

Looking up at the squalor of another fledgling sunrise brought him yet another conclusion. He'd been walking the surface of the turning world as the undead probably too long. Yet. Another. Pointless Emanation. Were those signs in the rays of bright abandon or just a fleeting example of all our lives brought to a daunting close. Mortality seems like the end. Not for those with a second chance to wander. He'd thought he was dead when the brick that had been flying for hours finally connected with his forehead. The heartbeat quickened, then slowed, then stopped. Then he was resurrected. He awoke stumbling up onto his knees and there was a crowd gathering with cell phones filming. He has risen. Pointless Emanation. He would semi-live to somewhat see another seemingly endless day. His torso cladden in a torn trash bag he flailed in the winds of dawn; fists clenching, unclenching, jaw drawn in a tight foreshadow of what was to come. He was homeless, dreamless, suntan-free, and billowing. Too few could see that his eyes cast an empty longing that resembled the dim pang of a tincan kicked down an empty alleyway at dawn. Cannery Row was his favorite novel; this favor emerging from a learned mind hoping to grasp at the straws of hobo-centric optimism. The classics taught him one thing: the life once held with love now lost could somehow been caught in between yellowed pages of novels written across centuries past. Those things that were gone could be captured within prose to be set down in stone. That's, he thought, the only way to reach an end to searching. Bring a close to this life just so he won't have to keep up this savage charade. But then again, he had already been cast down by mortar, only to be brought up in a post 20th century world. Was there any end to these Pointless Emanations? He thought not; possible pointlessly.