No one found the body until evening October, the stench incredible. Like watermelon sugar, gone sour in the Californian sun. And I still can't believe it.
Wasn't that just a moment before all of it became right? When it all resolved in watermelon perfection.
What came after September '84 would have made all the difference, I think. The path to here would have been worth the walk. I think he would have enjoyed it. And (inspecifically) this.
I wish he'd called at nine years old. I wish he could call me now.
And yet how can I feel sorry for Richard? He rode his own crest and crashed on that ponderous Pacific shore.
He saw sky and soul.
Burned all the maps to his body.
And made his own decision.