A man named Hans played me a song for a dollar and fifty seven cents. It had no name. Hans told me that he learned his style from Tupac Shakur. He also told me the song that he performed would not and could not be played ever again. It was a moment in his life relived in lucid reenactment, no doubt embellished to the extent of Hans' epic personality.
I had to stop him in the middle of the second movement of his impromtu rock opera to for my approaching bus. He extended his cracked knuckles for a pound and a "God Bless". The ugly expression of this broken man reeked of prideful pain and need. I ran across the street in a daze, nearly getting run over by the bus I was trying to catch.
So it goes with me.
I chase the prize of life with fluffed bravado, the truth is that is pursues me. It confidently stalks me without doubt, in fact. When I catch it's scent my weapons start to feel like the toys they are. When I feel the torrents of fury in its cry, my airs of courage drop and I cower. The quarry I claim to seek so ferventy is truly my greatest fear, and face to face with the power I fall to my knees and beg for mercy.