nothing about the weather

There are two things, if I could write a letter to some guy that leads the shit that scares us, I'd write to tell him that they're running for a reason because that's a given. I'd actually tell him that I paused writing in that moment just then to only realise that slight litigation that we're not even running. I'd ask; are the rest running or are they waiting to die? And he'd just saying cunningly, "which seems more pleasant?" meanwhile adjusting his suspenders with a fleshy snap.
A one man wolf pack. One track. One minding single handedly thought he only seems to be avoiding things. Falling down them, slipping down them like soft leather and a TV remote, he loves, he loves and according to the column of his buttons his fuse mounds throwing plastic bowls against walls like the hope he has, hoping they would break. He can lay the gaff and deliberate by the clock as he slides through sand for a graze when he speaks.
Hopelessly afloat when he opens his mouth.

Like he's an alec from Barbados, a taut straw hat strict without any bits sticking out to say I love you. His personality, at the cliff edge rocked with wit like he's not serious, and flamboyant about his own jokes he let's that shit go.. Until the time is right. There isn't an ounce of patience left at his back door step but he keeps to insist.    A lover of time - and work - - subdue it seems to be handled minutely at once as a possibility. He loves to think with a fleck he fends off thought as if it was war time. A war we don't know whether or not if it's a battle or the becoming of a soldier that epitomises giving it up in what stance? Every day passes as he counts them without focusing on the hours before his cares, and his sunsets so technically, to him, and me; tomorrow can't fall. He will stare into predicament because to him that's not it all, the day isn't all it's worth because it entails a gratification to patience and a shallow justification to waiting each time guaranteed.