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A new bruise forms. What is it? Shape of an H, upside-down M. Pinpricks at each of its points. Pink, orange, purple.

It's this place, it's getting to me. Can't stop the oil on my forehead. Can't wash the stench from my shirts. Dirt under my shoe, embedded. Seems like everything's embedded.

Spots on the desk, veneer has worn away. Dust. Eventually even dust will scar. Something soft, small. All it needs is time.

She gave me this watch. Broken and used, gold on a silver chain, covered in the dust of the flea market. Someone else's memories, someone else's home, gone for forty dollars.

Something hits me in the eye. Even more bloodshot. I look like a victim.

There are men and women that go to outer space. That fly beyond our atmosphere, beyond our very knowledge. There are people who, given the chance, would never stop going. They would never come back. And they knew it when they were young.

I'm going to bruise again. I know I will. I know it.