It's strange how we soldier forward; strange that we've stood naked- in degrees between literal and analogical- so proud, so strong and sure, for men we've lost the addresses for. Strange how we looked with eyes so soft and shaded when the winds blew wild enough to knot and noose our hair.
The pain of a long journey, like when you stare too directly and too long at passerbys on the train, when you look at the edges of two objects too color-contrasted they seem two-dimensional, the embarrassment you feel when you're caught. The vanishing of the thought that maybe one day you'd mindlessly rub their callouses in front of a blaring television without wondering where they came from, that one day you'd stand naked in front of them- in degrees between literal and analogical.
It's the blood off your tendons that makes the leather of your new shoes soft.