The odd hours find me awake at the wheel making my patient way home. The insistent vaguity inside me is still there. It does not go away with the rising of the sun. It does not go to sleep like I do. It is there when I turn the eye inside away from the Sin it has just committed.
The sin likes still beside me on the bed, smoking. Is it hot, the fire in hell, I wonder. It is hot in my hands when I cup his stubbly chin. It is prickly also.