'Routines Pt. 2'

Enter the author, wearing a starry mantle and a crown of light. He looks solemn, dragging himself when he walks and hunching a little as if the crown weighs too heavily against his head.

How heavy can light ever be?

The author all the while does not raise his head, not even to look at me; his body language says he’s tired, that he’s powerless to evade his responsibilities. He shows me his open hands. They’re empty, but he can’t hold them still.

And out comes a rhetorical question: “And when is it my turn to get what I want?”

I think: you don’t get a turn, when I take his hands into mine, closing them.

I think: I’m sorry this is fucked up.

The author starts crying, his body shivering with each sob. The light surrounding him begins to pulse, growing weaker then stronger when he takes a deep breath. His tears move across his face like diamonds.

I give him a few more minutes because that’s all I got.