He

I drove to the place where he is, not god. God is dead and has been for as long as memory serves.
I only capitalize the forgotten name when beginning a sentence. The place has no mirror to look into, but casts the most vivid reflection. The quiet gnaws at your eardrums like mice in a wall behind your headboard  until its teeth make its own sound by the act of trying to hear alone.The silence doesn't deafen. The silence doesn't care.
I wrote the words and they screamed back at me from the illuminated page. A thousand times they prophicized their own end; my eyes wont focus on them any more.
I wrote the words again
and again
and again they showed no beginning but only an end in themselves
He is...
I wrote the words and then they were gone like snowflakes on a windscreen.
He, when I wake. He is, when I rub the sleep from my eyes and the light dilates my pupils. He is gone, when the familiar taste of routine touches my tongue and tastes like peppermint. Why does it always taste the same? Tomorrow I will try to taste tangerine when the brush stamps the time on my teeth. He is gone again, when I pull my pants up one leg at a time and think of the deep pools i will draw from some day. Today is not just another day, it is today. Yesterday is gone to all but the nostalgic pinning for the days of yore. He is gone again and, and I am left here alone in the same loophole that only differs by moon light. It comes rushing out. He is gone again and I, I am he is she is and we are all together pushes out from radio waves, my hand not so saintly on the radio dial.
He is gone again and I am He.
I come here to be with he. I come here to be with me. In the silence that is not quiet I am forged. By the wind in the trees and the clouds in the sky I am shaped. My shape is not my own. It is changed from the image my mind projects. I am the jagged mountain top. I am the soft juniper branch. I am the Walrus. Do you see me as I am? Do I see me as I was?
When was the last time I slept? I count back and remember by dreams. I was looking through the keyhole, I was turning the knob, I walked thru the door and there he was in his patent leather shoes and red flannel shirt, holding out his wrinkled yellowed hand. I catch little glimpses of Truth in the reflection off the razor, the pain from a nick, the viscera smudged in my sink by black oil stained fingers. The truth in the stain that will not come out. The truth that is seen lying prone in the dark, it's orange eyes a glow like the nothing has returned for it's kingdom of dark beyond black.

Snow flakes grow larger and come faster. They look like stars when I lock 4 wheel high singing greased gears into place and reach my own hyper drive. The cold doesn't know. The cold doesn't care.
"It is unforgiving and will only respond to indifference. It felt the same until the next day. The thought of being cold is just that. It is only a thought lost in a deep blue sea of forgotten memories on which we all float upon our own islands. The tortoise is indifferent. The tortoise swims on.
The dash board lights grow dimmer, the snow banks rise up to meet the sky, the line is blurred.
It is no longer a line, it's only a theory. The road doesn't exist.

There ARE deeper tales to tell. There are caps to lock. There are reflections to see. There are under currents to report. I dream of an unforcasted afternoon nap with accompanying thunder to to calm my frayed nerves before I take to the sky. There will always be dreams.
The dreams wiped blurry by the daily papers and their super bowl week, wiki leaks, and countries on fire.
In my dreams I hover just above the underside of snow, my legs push through the deep. The silence walks with me. Then there is nothing but the cold. Then there is nothing. All thoughts are gone, survival is a an action not a word in the dampened hood and soaking wet fingers.
How long will I walk before I am seen. Will they stop or will they drive by slowly and wonder why I am out here in the snow? Why is he walking without a care down this winding mountain pass in the dark? Where did he come from? Where will He go?
There is no code underneath. The interpreter makes it up as he goes. The interpreter is just a story teller in permanent disguise. The words do not know.
The words do not care.
Will I stop and dig until the snow piles above and sleep comes to me. It is 4 AM,
again!
Back to my dreams where it always snows, but it is never cold.