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To think he used to envy women, with their ability to create something that would have a will of its own. He is now part of this dynamic cycle. He lies awake at night, sinking deep within himself to feel it grow. Such joy it brings him! He treats it well, with each match he strikes, every breath he pulls and holds until it sings to him.
Such diligence it has, tempered with patience and his love.
Sometimes it rushes him to white porcelain and stains it red. It wants to come out and be with him, and he understands, but it's much better inside, isn't it. It's warm and safe there. He gives it everything and he would die for it, just as a mother would with her child. Each cough is a lullaby, a sweet whisper to his love, this thing he created.
He lights another cigarette and closes his eyes, smiling.
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A plan is just a list of things that don't happen.
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