Not So Silly Walking.

Straight up and down his hands are restless, jittery, even. He looks at those old worn planks rotting along the river: Am I older than them? Will I last as long as them? They are the skeletons of a forgotten industry. Steamboat apparitions left to worry about all the cargo they once serviced. The river laps against them taking a bit of themselves with each lull of water. His own utility now looks futile. He wants to tell the clock on the wall to shut up. I'm not here to rest! I'm keeping this fusion of life and despair alive! Like an encumbered log taking in the restless sea, no, like a tiny splinter of wood already taken from the tree, he is looking foward to a future uncertain. These are the days of the snapshot of archaic lanterns. They cast a dim light upon an age of backbreaking work, coal streaked on cheek, miscarraige left ungrieved. The age of toiling away without a thought. The mind wasn't so pristine as to wonder what it was then. It wasn't there for itself. It lifted hands for the shovel. It tore blisters from an axe. It stole years with a pick. Now his kind has all of time on their hands. To while away with thoughts bouncing, sending terrifying echoes of self fulfilling mortality. He is of the age of self awareness, lack of industry, tourism, the sights, leisure, entropic delight. Your checkout time is 10am and there is no extra charge for the forthcoming uncertainty.