Maybe.

Then again those die young fuckers always go SPLAT like cicadas on glass. All unaware and gawd awful gooey

and at least when time does it’s damn whittling down at least he told himself, it had the sensation of turning into dust maybe back into dust like Grandpa Reverend Taxnomy used to say in Regular Baptist timbre

or maybe the mystery is there is no mystery and we don’t know until we get there, like life before crowd-sourced GPS took all the adventure out of driving… well that and gas prices and truck nutz and the general lack of hitchhikers

this the old man pondered, filling his gas tank and longing again for aimless conversations in which people didn’t enquire about his bowels and young women didn’t think him so harmless