The sillouette of a man laying against a grave stone ponders his life while, unbeknownst to him, a child no more than fifteen or sixteen peers at him through weathered glass. The wind in the trees filters the falling sun through the through the leaves, laying down on the red brick building shifting the colors, the pattern indecipherable and undefinable from one moment to the next.
A revolver makes its temporary home in an impression in the center of four, tear stained and dirty papers, laid out before the shadow, in a large square on the coarse grass. The almost unnecessarily large gun crinkeles the paper surrounding it. A thought relating it to a spider web scrambles across his mind, but he bites his lip, and curses. The thought is crushed like a cockroach, and instantly, hates himself a little more, both for having the thought and for killing it.