**** 9 ****** lucky me again
___Brent woke up to a scream in the night. A howl of some creature disturbed and flitters of burning light outside danced in the windowpane as Brent's dreary mind sprung alive lazily.
"I'll kill everyone of you sons of bitches! Get the law called on me, I'll burn your carcasses and leave the bones for strays!"
___ This burst obviously came from Mr. Stevens. Jill even caught a bit of the rant as she stirred in bed. Brent went to the window and there was Mr. Stevens in his house coat and boots drinking whiskey from the bottle while holding a burning Maltav cocktail. Brent could hear the raccoons scatter from the garbage in the back of the house. Mr. Stevens took a stumbling run and threw the cocktail into a group of retreating animals. They scurried quickly away and it didn't seem that any were injured. Brent watched the old man as he collapsed and knelt down on the ground watching the fire burn up scortching the lively lawn and dying out in the cool night. Brent felt like he understood the man a little more in seeing his sad nature quietly.
____We all die. It doesn't matter if your worth a million dollars, have a thousand kids, invent the most amazing thing ever, you are expendable.
____Mr. Stevens stared blankly into the advertising box in his living room. He rolled around thoughts inspecting loopholes and options. He did this process frequently with no avail. He eventually forgot what he was doing in the first place. This kept him sharp, but his information was all mixed up. He couldn't differentiate reality from fiction. He didn't know the difference between the truth and fiction, most of which he had made up without recalling his true meaning. This left him uneasy and often afraid of everything outside of himself and outside of his control, because with all this time checking facts and separating created meaning from true meaning had robbed him of most organizational ability. He drove himself mad when deciding on dinner for the evening. The proper placement of silverware and a thousand thoughts on ettiquite, dining, and entertainment filled his head, beckoning him to make everything perfect. In reality he was surrounded in a mess. Yes it was often tidy, but no place of comfort. He often sat in his room enjoying a book, because the insanity would die down behind the words. He would often not even absorb what he had read, but just sit there calmly running his eyes over the words and mouthing or humming a slight tune as he did so to balance with the piercing silence of his lonely dark hollow.