On nights like this,

I wonder why I smoke

I wonder if after inhalation,

What would happen,

Should I not exhale at all.

What would I feel then?

Would I lament it?

Would I weep?

Would it be bittersweet?

I think I would say, "oh well."

I think I would fold up my dreams,

And place them next to me, all neat,

And think,

"It was a nice thought,

It was a nice thing to want,

It was a beautiful fantasy, at least."

I think that could be enough, for me.

That would be enough.

It has all been enough.

I haven't turned out the way I thought.

But that's okay, it never really does.

And it's my fault,

The way things ended up.

I walked here, I am walking there.

It's my feet, they're my legs.

I have nothing for which to complain.

My bed is warm for now,

Some day it will be cold.

That's all there is to it, I suppose.

There's me, then there isn't.

There is a future, then in a sudden,

There is only present,

And finally, nothing.

It's funny how suggestible I really am.

If I was out drunk with a small crowd,

In this car, on the highway,

I would be invincible.

But instead, I am alone,

And missing you,

And so every turn in the road becomes,

A near death experience.

From complete immunity,

To complete fragility,

In the same moment across,

Two universes.

I am everything at once.

Have you been to the desert?

Where it isn't sand, but dust,

Where the ground -- it moves, it lives,

Like water,

Like the current,

Like it doesn't know where to settle.

And where my boots smack hard against the packed clay.

And they scrape a layer off the top,

And upheave what little had planted itself in that place,

And force it, too, into the wind,

And to places unknown.

And there, you'll find me.

The dust. Yeah. I think. If anything else...

The littered bones, too.

The absent flesh,

The only evidence of life, anywhere.

The shadow of a coyote,

The wake of a vulture.

The negative space:

The best portrait of myself nature could paint.

Two friends drank coffee by a campfire. One had eyes that absorbed the light, the other, eyes that made it look dull in comparison.

"I'm worried," the one with bright eyes said.

"About?"

"Forgetting."

"Forgetting what?"

"Who I am."

"You're with you all the time, how could you forget."

"I'm not really."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm with you all the time. The more I'm with you, the less I feel I'm with myself."

"I see."

"Do you ever worry about forgetting? Now that I'm here."

"No. Not really."

"How?"

"I don't feel as if I have anything to forget yet. I'm still looking for it."

"You have been alone a long time."

"I think that might have been the problem."

Silence enveloped them.

"Do you think I'll forget?" The friend with eyes of glass broke it.

"No, I don't."

"How can you be sure?"

"I can't quite explain it yet."

"Can you try?"

"I can but I won't."

"That's not very helpful."

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay. I trust you."

Silence.

"Do you remember being a child?" The one with eyes the color of grief asked.

"I thought you weren't going to explain."

"Just a bit. Do you want me to stop?"

"I remember bits and pieces."

"So you've forgotten already."

"I don't think so."

"Explain."

"It's like a ship. Losing some pieces doesn't sink it."

"Don't bring Theseus into this."

"It is like that though."

"Not really."

"Well, I think it is."

"You aren't a ship, my friend. You are a ship builder. You worry if I help you build it, the ship won't be yours anymore, and maybe it won't. Maybe it will be ours. But there is a difference."

"A difference?"

"Yeah, between a life and a person. The ship is your life, but the one who makes it, that's you."

"That's us."

"If you want help."

"Maybe."

"Maybe?"

"Maybe we can build a nicer ship if we work together. A prettier life."

"I don't expect it to be pretty."

"But it will be grand."

"It will certainly be different."

"Good. I want it to be different."

Two friends walked along the rocky coast. One had eyes that mirrored the white sun shining overhead, and was known by the name The Moth, despite being a human boy. The other had eyes as dark as the depths of the sea, and was known by no name.

"It's so wide open," The Moth said, "nothing is telling me how far I'm allowed to see."

"Do you enjoy that?" His friend asked.

"I do. Don't you?"

"I haven't thought about it."

"It feels like freedom."

"Freedom isn't something you feel, or something you're in. it's something you do."

"It can also be something that just is."

"Explain."

"You're free. As long as we've been traveling you've just been free. It's something innate about you."

"Very little is innate about me, Moth. I am what I choose to be. You chose to be free alongside me, that you must know by now."

"I suppose I've never thought about it that way. I still like the view."

"It just makes me feel exposed. I feel vulnerable."

"And you dislike that?"

"I'd say I do."

"Because you fear it?"

"I guess so."

"You know what?”

"What?"

"Fear isn't something that just is, it's something you do."

The gravel crunched beneath their feet as they walked. The Moth’s jeans, too long and already shredded at the hem, tore a little further with each step. He became so enraptured with the view of the waves lapping at the horizon, he jumped when his friend spoke.

“That place has seen better days.”

“Huh?” Moth mouthed before he looked over, and absorbed what he was seeing. On top of a hill overlooking the sea was a house. It was wooden, and in tatters. A small sailboat sat in its shadow on the rocks in-front of them, “oh wow. Do you think anyone still lives there?”

“It feels unlikely,” the dark eyed friend replied, “but there’s only one way to find out.”

They didn’t need to wait long, however, as a third voice soon came hollering from above, “Hey! Stop there.”

The two boys slowed but didn’t stop. They looked up to see a man standing in the doorway of the house. He looked to be in his early fifties, with a light jacket on, and thin wire framed glasses to match his equally wiry physique.

“Hi,” the black eyed friend called out, “we’re travelers. This is my companion Moth.”

“Do you have any weapons?” The man asked.

“Yes,” the friend answered, pulling his long coat aside to reveal a large knife fastened to his belt.

“Will you remove it?”

“No, I’m afraid I won’t.”

The man furrowed his brow at this, and adjusted his glasses, “come up then,” he called down, “I don’t want to yell anymore.”

The friends scrambled up the rocks to meet him at the front of the house. When they arrived, they found him to be shorter than he initially appeared, both of them loomed over him despite their own modest statures. He looked tired up close. His eyes drooped behind their lenses, and his mouth turned down at the edges, pulled by time into a permanent frown, “I’m sorry traveler. It was naive of me to ask you to remove your knife. It must be a dangerous world out there.”

“It was,” The dark eyed man replied, “it was also naive of you not to insist.”

The man laughed at this, “I suppose there was no winning, the damage is done now. Would you two like to come inside? I don’t have much to offer with respect to food unless you enjoy clams, but I can fix us some tea. It has been quite some time since I’ve talked to anyone but myself, I would love to hear your stories.”

“And us yours,” The Moth replied.

The man ushered them into the house. The inside looked somewhat more put together. The walls were still nearing the end of their life, but there was a lit wood stove, and a rug with some rocking chairs and other furniture scattered around. “Cozy,” Moth commented as the two friends sat down, not bothering to wait for their host.

“Rest your feet, I’ll heat up some water for the tea,” the man grabbed a pot that hung on the wall, and slipped outside briefly. They watched through the window as he filled the pot from a water pump out front before returning to place it atop the stove. He sat across from them on a stool as a cool breeze cut through the house.

“Do either of you smoke?” The man asked as he removed a pipe and tobacco from his pocket, packing the latter in the former. The Moth vigorously shook his head, while his friend hesitated for a moment before waving the idea away with his hand. “Suit yourselves,” the man shrugged as he struck a match and took a few puffs, the warm scent filling the air, “so what brings you all the way out here?”

“Moth here wanted to walk along the coast. He likes the sea, and the misty air.”

“What a wonderfully trivial reason to go somewhere. Or in our case, nowhere.”

“We are almost always nowhere,” The friend with black eyes replied.

“If nothing is around, why are you living out here all alone?” The Moth asked.

The man scratched his chin, “at first it was a trivial matter as well, I was born here. Well, not in this house, but nearby. There used to be a village not far from here.”

“Used to be?” The Moth wondered aloud.

“Yes, it’s all gone now, except perhaps for some planks of wood. I haven’t walked that way in a long time. My village sustained itself by fishing from the bay here. I’m a fisherman myself. But some twenty years ago, the nets started coming back empty. A pack of whales had decided to make the bay their hunting ground, you see. Without the fish, the village couldn't survive, so they packed up and moved to somewhere with more abundant waters, or so one would presume.” he paused to puff on his pipe, “I have no idea if they ever actually made it.”

“But you stayed?” Moth asked.

The water began to boil then. The fisherman set his pipe down, stood, and walked over to a cabinet on the wall opposite the stove. He pulled out three mugs and a box of tea. “What kind of tea would you like? I have green, and black.”

“Do you mind?” the friend with dark eyes asked as he reached into his backpack, and pulled out a small tin, opening it to reveal a pile of teabags, “this tea is my favorite. It’s from my hometown.”

“And where is that?” The man asked, taking the bags from him, and pouring the water.

“It’s like here.”

The man chuckled, “nowhere, then. Ever cautious.” He handed the friends their mugs of tea, and resumed sitting. “Yes, I stayed. This is because of the second, less trivial reason for my being here, if you boys would humor my telling the story. There was a girl from my village named Anne who went to my school, if you could call it that. Together we comprised twenty percent of the class size. I’m not sure either of us ever learned much there, we were always too busy laughing, and drawing on our desks. From the first day we were inseparable. Later we grew into something other than friends. I don’t know if it was just a symptom of the small size of our village, or some wonderful stroke of luck that we found such love within one another. We would come down to the sea and fail to skip rocks across the choppy water. We truly felt like nobody else in the world could understand us. We felt like two people had never known each other like we knew each other. We married after finishing school, or perhaps we finished school to marry, I can’t quite remember now. I like to tell myself I chose to fish so I could be close to the sea, and those memories, but in reality there probably just wasn’t much else to do."

The travelers sipped their tea prematurely as he continued, most of the flavor in the leaves having been washed away by time anyway, “Anne took up many jobs around the village. She was always smarter than I was, and better with her hands too. She would fix up the houses after storms marched in from the sea. Eventually, she tried her hand at building one, and we moved in here. Sadly, no matter how much I watched her, I never got any better at such things myself.

When the whales came, we had been here for a few years. I walked into the village one day to sell what few fish I had been able to catch to find carts and people all throughout the main street. I found the village chief milling around their convoy and asked what was happening, and he told me to look around. He said the villagers were thin, and hungry, and that they were leaving. He said we should come if we wanted a future for our family.”

“That was probably the smart decision,” the friend with dark eyes offered.

“I thought so too, we were growing thin ourselves, rationing what little fish we could afford not to sell. I rushed home to tell Anne we should begin to pack. I was sure one of the villagers would let us hide away what few possessions we had on their wagon. Our parents had both been well dead by that time, but we had a good relationship with our neighbors. But when I tried to explain she became upset.”

“It’s hard to leave the place you grew up, and to have that decision made for you,” The Moth said.

“Yes, “ said the man, “but it wasn’t just that. She was angry with me for even suggesting the idea. She saw leaving here like leaving those memories we shared together behind. In her mind I had betrayed her for considering it. She insisted that the whales would leave, and that if they didn’t she would hunt them herself, that I should be willing to do the same. She wanted us to fight. I pleaded with her to consider sense, I told her we could form new memories somewhere better. Ultimately, that proved a mistake.”

“That seems irrational, one cannot fight against nature,” the friend with dark eyes said solemnly.

The man just shook his head, “I see how you would think that. You are still young. You still think a battle is about winning. It isn’t. Fighting is about conviction, it’s about declaring that something is more important than your own life. She was simply more courageous than I was, and upon hearing her words I understood this. At the time, all I could do was collapse to the floor, and cry, full of pity for my own weakness. She ultimately left me there, and stormed out of our home.

When I did find enough courage to chase after her, I ran outside to find her a few dozen meters off the coast, rowing our small fishing dinghy into the open ocean with a spear laid across her lap. I yelled after her to come back, but it was just met with a smile. ‘I’ll show you, my love.’ was all she called out as I jumped into the sailboat you see down on the beach now, and set off after her.

By the time I caught up, her boat was shaking violently. The weather was bad, and the wind whipped violently, making it difficult for me to maneuver with a sail. A pod of the whales had appeared and were thrashing their bodies against the bottom of her dinghy. I was still too far to get a clear picture, but I saw her standing there, hair blowing in the wind, with one of her legs up on the dingy’s bench, and the spear in her hand. She was jabbing at the water ferociously. I had given up using the sail at this point, and as I rowed up beside her she looked at me with a soft smile that I’ll never forget. It was then that a whale smashed into the hull, and her boat rocked violently to the side. She slipped, her spear flew high as she fell between the boats. I reached out a hand to grab her, and just as her fingers skimmed my palm, a shadow grew from underneath the water. She screamed, and I reached for my knife just in time to plunge it into the whale’s right eye, but it was too late. It grabbed her between its teeth and dove, transforming my beautiful wife from a person to a fading ripple of bubbles. Her body never washed ashore, and that was the last I saw of her.”

The fisherman removed his glasses, and wiped the wet from his eyes, “I’m sorry, travelers. I wish I had a more light hearted story to tell, but that has been my life. I live here, and try my best to keep her home from collapsing, eating the clams, and fighting against nature in her spirit. That’s why I stay.”

The Moth looked down at the floor, “I’m sorry.”

“I still think it’s a waste,” said the friend with eyes the color of ash.

The old man laughed again, “maybe you’re right,” he said, his smile steady, “but I'm content here, watching her memory. I don’t want anything else. Now, enough about me. You two tell me about your journey. Let this lonely fisherman learn what’s out there in the world.”

And so they did. The boys and the fisherman sat together for a few hours as The Moth and his friend spoke about the places they had seen, and the experiences they’d had. Hearing their tales, the man laughed and cried and slapped his knees excitedly, “who knew,” he would say intermittently, or “is that really true? I can hardly believe it.”

Eventually they all grew tired as the sun set, and began communicating as much in yawns as in speech. “You can stay here for the night if you wish, it must be too late to set up camp,” the old man offered, to which the traveling friends quickly accepted. Soon they were wrapped in blankets, having laid their sleeping bags out on the floor, fighting off the chill of the night. The fisherman retired to a bedroom in the back of the house, and the friends whispered briefly to one another,

“Does the tragedy of it ever bother you,” The Moth asked.

“The tragedy of what?”

“I don’t know, living. The human condition, I guess.”

“Is it tragic?”

“Today it seems tragic.”

“Do you see tragedy in the life of that man?”

“Do you not?”

“I don’t, no.”

“What do you see?”

“Something else.”

“But what?”

“I don’t know, something that makes me glad we stopped here.”

The Moth was the last to wake. He found the old man sitting once again on the stool with his pipe in his hand, and his gaze out the window. His friend was hunched over on the floor sharpening his knife. The Moth stretched, and spoke through a yawn, “good morning.”

“Good morning,” they replied in unison.

“Now that you’re up, I suppose it is time we head out,” the friend with eyes of tar said.

The fisherman turned to them, as they began to pack their things, “I lament that you can’t stay and tell me more of your stories. But, I suppose if you did, I’d only delay you from making new ones. All I ask is that you share your tales with all those like me that wish to hear, and please travel safely.”

The boys both nodded earnestly, and made their way out of the house.

“I think it’s time we say goodbye to the sea for a while,” The Moth said, and so they wound up the hills that led away from the shore before settling down atop one to heat up some coffee. As they sipped it, they could see the house below them, now small in the distance, the waves appearing to lap right up against it in an illusion of perspective. They watched in silence for a while before an ant-sized figure emerged, heading down the path, and behind the cliff where the traveling friends knew a small sailboat hid. “I know you’re angry with the sea right now, Moth, but I wonder if perhaps she deserves a farewell,” the friend with black eyes spoke.

“You aren’t ready to leave yet, are you?”

“Not quite yet.”

—----

The fisherman pushed hard, urging the vessel into the water, his feet slipping in the sand, “would you like a hand with that,” a voice called out.

“Oh Moth, hello,” the man wiped the sweat from his brow, “I thought you two had left.”

“We figured we might want to actually meet the sea, rather than simply look at her from afar,” The Moth’s friend said.

“These waters are too dangerous, I’m afraid,” the fisherman replied, “did you not hear me last night as I told my story.”

At this the dark eyed boy laughed, “did you not hear us as we told ours?”

The fisherman opened his mouth for a moment before he shut it and gestured to the boat with a shrug. The travelers took position at either side of him then, the three of them easily pushing it into the water. They hopped in, and the fisherman unfurled the sail. A breeze caught it quickly, and soon they were gliding toward the open ocean.

“So what are we doing?” Inquired the traveler with a shadow trapped in his eyes.

“Fishing,” the fisherman aptly replied.

“I thought all the fish were gone?” Moth asked.

“I suppose it isn’t fish we are after,” the man said, “really, it is a whaling expedition.”

No further discussion necessary, the travelers left the man to tend the sail, and took to watching the waves pass by. An hour passed with the waves lapping steadily against the hull of the sailboat. The weather was clear, and the breeze light but steady,

“I could fall into a state of hypnosis,” The Moth said.

“What would the sea ask of you?” His friend replied.

“Hopefully, nothing. I’d like to be left here as I am forever.”

“That would get boring.”

“I feel as if I’ve heard that before. Everything bores you.”

“Everything stagnant.”

“The ocean isn’t stagnant, it moves. It lives”

“It moves, but it never stops. It can’t live, because it can’t die.”

“That sounds melodramatic. Must they exist relative to one another?”

“I think so.”

“I wish they didn’t.”

“I know.”

“Maybe they don’t.”

“Maybe.”

Then, the pendulum of the waves was interrupted. A break in the pattern appeared a few feet in front of the boat, and then another to its starboard side, “whales,” the old man said under his breath, as he reached down and picked up his spear from the deck. The three of them watched as the pod circled the ship, blowing water into the air as they went, their heads appearing briefly above the water line before disappearing once more. The fisherman learned from one side of the sailboat to another, his eyes narrow and jaw clenched. Then, without warning, as one of the whales reared its head from the waves, the man leaped from the side of the boat. The travelers spun their heads around just in time to spot the scar that marked the whale’s eye, and watch the old man descend upon it, spear in hand. The Moth’s nose scrunched, anticipating what was to come, but as the spear neared the whale’s exposed head it suddenly slipped, and twisted skyward. The fisherman hit the water with a slap, and the shaft of the spear bounced off of the whale’s skin uselessly. Within seconds, the fisherman’s flailing arms disappeared beneath the water, along with the whale, a dark disturbance in the waves the only indication they were ever there. A few moments passed, but nothing changed. After a few more, the whales seemed to lose interest and floated away, leaving the travelers alone.

After a timeless period of silence, Moth furled the sail and they let themselves drift aimlessly for a while. Neither of them were able to find the right words to break the silence. Eventually, The Moth gave it a stab with some that his friend had been wishing he wouldn’t hear, “the scar on the whale’s eye.”

“Yeah, I noticed.”

“It was –”

“The wrong one.”

“Do you think he realized?”

“The spear?”

“Yeah.”

“You think it was on purpose?”

“Maybe.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“I think it really is time to say goodbye to the sea.”

“Yes, I'm ready to leave now.”

"Do you know how to sail?"

"A traveler has to know how to do everything if he wishes to survive."

"I take that as a no."

"I will very shortly."

"I can teach you."

"How do you know how to sail?"

"It's a story for another time,” The Moth said, his face blank, “do you still think his life wasn’t tragic?”

“My opinion hasn’t changed.”

“I think mine has.”

When death marches for me, I say hello,

Like buying groceries,

And greeting the cashier with an absent mind.

Then --

When I buy groceries,

I am solemn, like I am greeting death.

Two traveling friends followed a valley carved through the dry hills of an arid wasteland. One of them had eyes like glistening ice, and was known as The Moth, though he was distinctly human. The other had eyes like coal, and was not yet known by a name.

"Do you ever worry about going the wrong way?" The Moth asked.

"Not really."

"I could worry about it."

"Do you?"

"Not yet, but I could get there."

"Why?"

"Because you only get a sliver of the whole thing. What if it's not the best piece?"

"I suppose, but take this ration bar I have in my hand for example. It has peanuts in it. You like peanuts, right?"

"Yes."

"Okay, so say I split this, and I hand you the piece with more peanuts. That's the better piece, right?"

"I'd say so."

"But now let's say I am starving, and you're full, who will enjoy their piece more?"

"I see what you're getting at."

"I don't think anyone is hungrier than I am."

"But I'm not you."

They walked in silence for a while then, accompanied only by the sound of their heels scraping against the hard dusty path. At some point the valley replied to the echo of their slapping heels with an intermittent metallic ring. "What an interesting sound," the one with dark eyes said. The two friends followed the noise off the path and up the side of the valley, where they were eventually met by a rectangular hole outlined with wooden planks.

"A mine?" Moth asked.

Ting!

"Guess so."

Ting!

The dark eyed friend tested the ladder which clung to the inside of the hole lazily, before beginning his descent. Moth quickly followed. Soon the dark enveloped them and they were descending in near complete darkness, aside from The Moth's glowing eyes.

Ting!

As they reached the bottom, they could start to see a small amount of light tucked behind the corner where a corridor met the shaft they were in. "I'm not fond of enclosed spaces," Moth said as he disembarked the ladder behind his friend.

"I suppose you don't think about being within your own body often, then."

"Oh. I do."

"Then, this must feel spacious."

"You always know just what to say," the Moth said dryly.

"I don't know what to say to that."

Ting!

The noise was almost excruciating now, but neither of them covered their ears. The two friends followed the small lamps that lined the inner corridor, around the corner and down the long but narrow mine. They walked through the shaft for many minutes before they spotted the source of the sound.

Ting!

"He’s older than any miner I've ever seen," The Moth said quietly. The miner in question had his back turned as he worked at the hard rock before him.

Ting!

"I'm surprised he can even pick up that pickaxe."

Ting!

"I don't think I could swing it that hard, myself."

Ting!

"You couldn't," the friend with eyes like night walked forward, and gently placed a hand on the old man's shoulder, alerting him to their presence. He turned around slowly, and without surprise, leaning on his tool like a cane. It had a rusty discoloration on its head.

"Oh, hello," the old man spoke cheerfully, looking past the man in front of him, speaking instead to Moth, "how I would like eyes like those, I would save the time keeping these lamps alive.

The dark eyed friend stepped back in front of him, "hello, are you not surprised to see us here?”

"I'm too old for surprise, young man. What is surprising about people? People are all around. The crystal eyes of your friend are much more rare, however. If I could only find something like those in this rock," he scratched his head, "your eyes also have their own odd quality to them, they remind me more of these mineshafts. For that, they make me uneasy, though I mean no offense."

"None taken, this is common."

"Why do I feel as if this attribute has been cultivated rather than simply endured? Hmm, well then, do the two of you have business of some sort with an old man?"

"Not particularly."

"Then what brings you here?"

"We're travelers," Moth chimed in, a hint of excitement dancing on his tongue, undetected by the old man.

"Come, then," the miner said, as he placed down his pickaxe and walked past them to an offshoot along the corridor that they had missed on their way in. The two followed. The side shaft was even more narrow than the previous one, and clouded in darkness.

"No lamps could be affixed to the walls here, sadly. There would be no space for me to squeeze past had there been," the old miner explained. The Moth grimaced as they all pushed their way through.

Eventually, it opened into what could only be described as a cave carved out of the rock, and lamp light returned. On the far side was a small wooden table and some benches, whereas closer by was a small gas stove and some personal effects littered around: books, clothes and tools chief among them.

"I'll heat up some coffee," the old man said, turning on the stove, "have a seat, the two of you must be tired."

"We weren't the ones swinging that axe around," the black eyed friend said, taking a seat on the bench anyway. The Moth followed suit.

"Oh that? My body no longer feels anything with regard to the mining. It's like breathing to me. Sometimes I fall asleep and wake up a few feet from where I dozed off."

"How long have you been doing this?"

"Sixty or so years."

The cave brightened ever so slightly with the widening of The Moth's eyes, "that long? You must have found a lot of precious metal in that time."

The old man placed a tin cup in front of each of the friends and poured a small amount of instant coffee in them before taking a seat at the head of the table, "not a single gram," he said with a grin stretched across his face. The reflection of a flame from the nearest lamp danced in his eyes.

The two of them sat in shocked silence. The Moth nervously picked up the cup of coffee, but his friend slowly guided Moth's hand back down before he could take a sip, their eyes meeting for a moment. The old man continued, "but I see it sometimes, a glimmer of gold in the rock, or emerald, or sapphire. I've seen every precious stone you've ever heard of in the rock out there. It slithers away as I chip it down, but one day I'll catch up, I'm sure of it."

"That sounds like some kind of mirage," the one with dark eyes said.

"It makes no difference to me."

"How so?"

"You must know, you're travelers after all. You don't travel to get somewhere, you travel to be going somewhere. The meaning of this life is in the wanting."

"Is that so?" The nameless friend wondered.

"It must be lonely down here mining. Do you visit home often?" The Moth asked.

"No. I won't go home empty handed, I haven't seen my village since I began those years ago."

"Do you not have a family?"

"Oh I do, and they're wonderful. I have a wife and a daughter," the old man's eyes lit up, "my daughter even came to visit me in the mine. Sadly she didn't initially understand what the two of you must."

"What do you mean?" the friend with eyes of shadow prodded. The steam from their untouched coffee floating in the air between the three of them.

"She tried to convince me to come home. She told me they didn't care if I had succeeded in finding the gold. She obviously didn't understand what you and I both know. That it isn't about the gold."

"What did you tell her?" he continued the line of questioning.

"I tried to show her. I asked her to stay and mine with me, then we could live together in that sacred feeling of hope."

"And she stayed?"

"Oh, yes she stayed. We live down here together now."

"I see. Where is she?"

"She's elsewhere, I'm surprised you didn't cross paths on your way in."

"Perhaps on the way out. What's her name? How old is she?"

"Her name's Elise, and she's twelve. She really is the best daughter an old miner like me could ask for, staying down here in this dusty old mine with her old man."

The trio sat in silence for a while then as the miner drank his coffee, oblivious to the fact that his guests ignored theirs. They simply ate the rations they brought in with them, the one with dark eyes picking off peanuts and handing them to The Moth. Eventually the friend with eyes of coal stood, "well, it would be impolite of us to interrupt your work any longer. We'll be heading out now."

"Yes, yes of course, please travel safely," the old man said absentmindedly, as if he had forgotten they were there.

The two friends made their way out of the mine then, The Moth scraped his elbows on the rough rock walls as he broke into a slow jog to keep up with his friend’s quick steps. Eventually they met the entryway, but before stepping on the ladder, the one with black eyes peered deep into a corner shrouded by darkness, "goodbye Elise," he waved.

The Moth stepped closer to see some pieces of a small child's skeleton pushed to the side of the cavern, the skull decorated with a large hole, greatly exaggerating what was presumably a normal eye socket at one point, "oh," was all he could say before they both climbed out and away.

As they walked from the hole, The Moth spoke, "You saw on the way in didn’t you?”

:Yes, but I didn't know”

“Why do you think he did it?"

"Loneliness perhaps, maybe delusion."

"Do you think he was right?"

"To kill her?"

"No, about the point of life."

"Oh, the wanting? I don't know. Maybe the point is to overcome it."

"What would you do?"

"If what?"

"If someone tried to stop you from traveling, tried to stop us from continuing our journey."

"What are you getting at?"

"Would you kill them? If you had to, I mean."

"You rarely have to."

"That's not what I asked."

As they walked back down into the valley, silence surrounded them for a while before the distant sound of metal hitting rock began once again.

Ting!

"Yes. I would," the man with eyes the colour of hopelessness eventually answered.

Ting!

Two friends walked through the forest. The one with eyes like a winter sky was called The Moth. The other had eyes like potting soil, and had yet to be referred to at all. Rays of light beamed through the canopy.

"Ahh, I've missed the sun," the Moth said.

"You're learning about the value of missing."

"Don't patronise me."

"But I am your patron."

"You're not. You're my friend."

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay."

"I'm still learning."

"Me too."

"Yes, about what it is like to miss."

The Moth's crystal eyes rolled, and ushered them into silence.

"Do you know where we are going next?" The dark eyed friend asked.

"No."

"Do you want to?"

"I don't think so."

"Why?"

"I'm not sure. I think it's presumptuous."

"How so?"

"Do you know where we're going?"

"Yes."

"I disagree."

"Explain."

"You know of somewhere that you want to be, but it isn't a place. You only know of a description or a memory or a photograph of somewhere."

"You can't visit any of those things."

"Exactly."

"Well I know the direction we are going in."

"I think you can know that."

"Would you like to know it, too?"

"Sure."

"None."

"Huh?"

"We are here."

They stopped and looked around, "the forest is nice," The Moth said.

"It is."

The one with eyes like ash sat on the forest floor. Silence followed for awhile then, and his friend joined him sitting.

"The night is approaching." The Moth spoke. His eyes looked particularly unnatural in the dusk.

"It will happen before then."

"What will?"

"Look to your right."

"Oh, there's a fox hiding."

A few feet away, a slender red fox slipped from the undergrowth and into full view.

"She is where we were going."

"She's where we were going?"

"It sounds odd. You will understand soon."

The Fox simply looked at them with golden eyes. They were almost as unnatural as those of The Moth.

"Hello Fox,"the one with obsidian eyes called out, "this is my friend Moth."

The Fox spoke then, her voice a song, "oh your companion found his name. You must have travelled far."

"We went to the end," the dark eyed friend replied.

"Does he know what it all means?" She inquired.

"How could he?"

"I see. You didn't start at the beginning, again. For someone intent on change you do repeat yourself mercilessly."

"It is not the same."

"How so?" She crooned.

"This time I am not alone."

"So you've come to begin again. How many times has it been now?"

"You know already."

"Have you told him?"

"No."

"Should I?"

"That is not a question I can answer, Fox."

The Fox then turned to the friend with eyes of glass, "Moth, do you know the purpose of your journey?"

"No."

"Would you like to?"

"You can't know it."

"You don't know what I don't know."

"You can't know this."

"Why?"

"Because, I haven't decided yet."

"You will find that is not the sort of detail that will keep me from knowing."

"Nevertheless."

"Very well."

"If you would like to answer a different question, I have one."

"I am here to answer your questions."

"Were you called The Fox first, or were you a fox first?"

"You worry about the implications of your new name?"

"I don't worry about them."

"Yet you want to know them?"

"Yes."

"It is not like that, Moth, for I am not a fox, I simply appeared to you as one. I am the forest, my name is The Fox."

"She is where we came to," The Moth muttered.

"You understand?" The dark eyed friend asked.

"Yes."

"And why did we come to her?"

"She is the beginning of the journey."

"There is a path?"

"No."

"What then?"

"There is a start, and there is an end. We must do the rest."

"Why is she the start?"

The Fox sang once again, "because I was the first to find the end."

"She is the one from which we are to learn there is a journey," the friend with black eyes offered, "without her blessing, we will wander like I found you."

"Do we have it?"

"If she is here, we have it."

"I see. I have one more question for you then, Fox, before we sleep and set out."

"And that is?"

"What is the name of my friend?"

"You haven't asked?"

"I haven't."

"He hasn't found one yet."

Two friends walked farther into the place they set out for.

"It is cold here," one of them spoke, his eyes like snow, reflecting the scenery.

"You aren't used to the cold."

"Are you?"

"I'm used to everything."

"That doesn't mean anything."

"It will, when we are done."

"Done?"

"This journey."

"Will we?"

"What?"

"Be done."

"I don't know."

"Will you?"

"Be done?"

"Yeah."

"No."

The snow emphasized the silence between their asides.

"Do you feel afraid still, now that we are here?"

"No."

"We have switched roles."

"Have we?"

"I can feel your warmth beside me."

"Follow the warmth, then."

"Like a moth."

"That's light."

"I can't tell the difference."

"Okay, Moth. Come. We'll be there soon."

Before them the snow reached out towards the horizon. Even Moth's brilliant eyes couldn't pierce the space between them and its end.

"What is here?" He asked.

"Peace."

"Peace?"

"For those like us."

"Like us?"

"Travellers."

"We are travellers?"

"In every sense of the word."

"I've never been anything before. What is the peace?"

"Fleeting."

"And?"

"Necessary. If we want to make it much farther."

"Rest?"

"Rest."

"In the cold? In the snow?"

"Where else?"

"In the forest, or the beach or a meadow in the sun."

"Don't torture yourself with those thoughts."

"It isn't torture. It's escapism."

"There isn't a difference."

"There is."

"Not when you're already where you want to be most."

"And that's here?"

"Yes."

The silence returned. They walked on, time escaping to somewhere more temperate.

"I can't feel my feet." The Moth eventually said.

"Stay close. It isn't much farther."

"Your warmth isn't enough anymore."

"This will have to do, then." The second friend stopped, an outline of frost decorating his dark eyes.

"What now?"

"Lay down."

"In the snow?"

"Yes. Lay down."

And so they did. And the snow began to fall then, too. Heavier and heavier. Heavier than snow can fall.

"Are we still laying down?"

"I don't know."

"All I see is white."

"All I see is black."

"What does that mean?"

"It means we will see each other again, soon."

"Promise me."

"I promise, my Moth. We are on our way to the beginning of the journey we are on now. It will make sense when we finish it."

"Haven't we just finished it. If we are on it now?"

"We started at the wrong place, or time."

"Or both. Will anything change?"

"Almost everything."

"Almost?"

"Everything but us."

"Oh."

"Is that okay?"

"Yes. I can let go now."

"See you soon."

Silence was the only answer offered to the friend with eyes of oil. He smiled, and too fell into the quiet.

"Do you talk to god?" His eyes somehow magnified the sunlight as he spoke, like fire set in crystal.

"Sometimes, I do."

"Do you believe in god?"

"Usually not."

"Do you believe in him when you talk?"

"Usually not."

"Then who are you talking to?"

"Myself, really. I guess."

"What does that say about how you see yourself?"

"It's late."

"Are you tired?"

"No."

"Are you tired of this conversation?"

"I don't think so."

"What then?"

"I am afraid, I think, of where we are going."

"The path ahead is clear and even."

"My knees ache."

"Do you want to stop?"

"Yes."

"Will we?"

"No."

They walked in silence for a while.

"I think I'm begging."

"Begging?"

"Yeah, like if I plead enough I can bring him into fruition."

"That would make you god, not him."

"That's what I want least in this world."

"What do you want, then?"

"To be led. I think."

"Why?"

"The path ahead is not clear and even."

"It is."

His eyes set shadow down, like satin across the horizon, "not to me."

"I see."

Silence.

"I could walk there with you instead. If it would help."

"I don't know."

"I could lead you. Until he replies, at least."

"You don't know anything about where we're going."

"I don't care."

"You probably should."

"I don't think I care about that, either."

"Until he replies?"

"Until then."

"Do you believe in god?"

"No."

"Then I think perhaps he already did."

Their hands intertwined then, and they walked onwards, a set of bright eyes cutting through the darkness.