The end of one road.

from The Omoroa Cup....

It’s not hard for me to imagine anything but sometimes I get stuck with big numbers, the thought of which could seem to fill the whole universe except I don’t know where the edges are, where it stops. Maybe that’s why I like to keep track of my money so I don’t fall off the universe. I can travel a long, seemingly endless road, imagining things all the way and if there’s someone to listen I might spin them a yarn about what I’ve seen. Even when there is no one to listen I can tell a story to myself and have a universe inside my heard so that I’m safe to go inside there just in case I ever reach the edge of the real one. So before I complete this story, or finish the yarn, or what ever cack-eyed name you put on it - I’ll put you right on what I’ve already said so that you can decide on whether this has been one big lie or a real story with the odd bit added on to disguise the use of real identities. I finally got to thinking that Ricky had all those scars because he was carrying something that might not have been his. And that had something to do with the way his head drooped, but I don’t know why he couldn’t speak except for that his tongue was cut out. Don’t ask why a man would carry something that wasn’t his and wasn’t doing him any good or even how a man would figure out why to do that. I know I’ve used some bad words to describe Ricky but I’m taking them back by telling you that I didn’t understand in the beginning that just because he was worse off than me, never talked, that I got a ahead of myself in where I thought he fitted in this world and what he deserved, even though I know he only ever treated me with kindness.