Beams crack through the window, and a radio sparks a tune. Lucky twirls the dial to cut off the morning theme, reaching for a cigarette to breathe. Hybrid yoga calisthenics disrupt his lung blackening, and a digital coffee pot blares a preset time. A ritualized beginning slowly bleeds all meaning.
Lucky earned his name by doing nothing much at all. His non- combative post in the Navy as a backseat soldier birthed this apt moniker. A suitable title, for even his physician cannot fathom the stock of good fortune the old bastard possesses. With the health of an oxen, Lucky seems doomed to an immortal life sentence.
A word fiend by heart, he has a dictionary of biblical proportions enthroned on a sunlit pulpit. The morning paper offers a grid of linguistic possibilities to quench his lust for articulation. Each day comes with a new pillar of language that Lucky attaches a melodramatic but charming significance to.
Stopping by predictable spaces, his daily proceedings have a cyclical and absolute geography. The diner feeds his hunger for camaraderie. The grocery outlet fills his calcium and nicotine addictions. And the tavern houses a captive audience that will occasionally entertain his existential ramblings.
Howard might be the only friend left that resonates with Lucky's twilight nightmares. Ascribing galactic meaning to his tortoises, Howard chooses to be in awe at every possible moment. Lucky still has a knack in upsetting the open-minded Howard, but only due to his brash form of prophecy.
Not a particularly wise man, Lucky gains insight that is indecipherable to his peers. A deteriorating man stuck in a town that shrinks whenever his knowledge expands. A mortal coil suffocates his desire to thumb through etymology, and sends him into the desert to examine callous cacti.
Lucky earned his name by doing nothing much at all. His non- combative post in the Navy as a backseat soldier birthed this apt moniker. A suitable title, for even his physician cannot fathom the stock of good fortune the old bastard possesses. With the health of an oxen, Lucky seems doomed to an immortal life sentence.
A word fiend by heart, he has a dictionary of biblical proportions enthroned on a sunlit pulpit. The morning paper offers a grid of linguistic possibilities to quench his lust for articulation. Each day comes with a new pillar of language that Lucky attaches a melodramatic but charming significance to.
Stopping by predictable spaces, his daily proceedings have a cyclical and absolute geography. The diner feeds his hunger for camaraderie. The grocery outlet fills his calcium and nicotine addictions. And the tavern houses a captive audience that will occasionally entertain his existential ramblings.
Howard might be the only friend left that resonates with Lucky's twilight nightmares. Ascribing galactic meaning to his tortoises, Howard chooses to be in awe at every possible moment. Lucky still has a knack in upsetting the open-minded Howard, but only due to his brash form of prophecy.
Not a particularly wise man, Lucky gains insight that is indecipherable to his peers. A deteriorating man stuck in a town that shrinks whenever his knowledge expands. A mortal coil suffocates his desire to thumb through etymology, and sends him into the desert to examine callous cacti.