in the hole, two years gone

timothy sicretta spent most of his time like the rest of them, tucked away in that hole on the outskirts, on the edge of space, waiting for someone to find him, to recover him, to dig him out of the shell he fabricated for himself. secretly, though, he enjoyed it. he enjoyed the solitude. the reclusiveness. it was him, whether he care to admit it or not, it fit him. he wrote this, quietly, in his sleep one night. it goes:

I couldn't tell you 'bout my lovers,
Nor 'bout the time of day
Or things that glow in murky swamps,
And things that fade away
Or those who come and stay a while
And share all that they know
Or those who see the gloom in men,
And simply choose to go
The facts remain, however trite,
That we are simple beings
Whose place in life is smaller than,
A token in the sea

i never understood it. i never tried to comprehend what might have been going through his head. it'd been too long anyway for me to even begin to realize what may have been going on in his mind. "it's in the dreams," he'd say, and i'd believe him. he did have quite peculiar dreams.