Wholly Incomplete Pt 1 of 2

The suspended state of halfness is, perhaps, best excentuated by the golden bask of sunlight filtering through the mid-lowered blinds. On the half-ruffled bed and generally uncleaned room. A smaller portion of the apartment permenantly lacking its second occupant, lost to the days of greater adulthood, leaving the man-boy amongst his broken dreams and unrealized potential. Though, in the state of things, it is closer to half-realized.

A hundred and eighty-five pages have been read of the novel's three hundred and forty page figure. Of the three bottles, one and a half have been drunk. His dinner from last night in the fridge, a steak burrito from an ill-ran taco truck, now only left with its lunch portion, evenly separated from breakfast. Its nearly comical, how this all aligns. The near lonliness is almost funny, just a breasth's width from social humanity. The laugh is caught in his throat.

Though evening, six more hours last of his day, where the stars will come out and cast their dim brightness through the veil of night, illuminating the sky and little else. It'll be the moon and the streetlights doing the rest. The night shift wears on his body and he fights fatigue, alone, in the darkness. Six hours in. Six hours more.

He remembers a man now, lying on the tracks. He was torn along his median line, right across the belly botton. It was nearly comical then, too, the halfness. He was pale white, drained of blood, covered in dirt and grime. The train still hunkered over its kill, shielding it from the responders who had come to take its prey.

Two truths and a lie is not evenly divisible, as everything in this ever-present-now must be, yet it is perhaps more true than half. I lied about the water bottles. There's only half of one left. And I lied about the time. There are eight more hours, not six.

The narrator is faulty, in his half-kind of way. But it's hard to be full as the stains of this life corrode at the edges, leaves stains on the soul, and burns into the heart. But it's of no value, worse, it's of negative value, to be empty.

Trust as I might in the world as it goes

Ever more stuck in time as it flows

There's more at the cusp, of these poor prose

Yet here we are stuck, in this half-way pose...