Son, You Need A Haircut: 988 Suicide and Crisis Lifeline

"A dressed day has disrobed into the depth of a drawer's nightstand." (Oh, how positively awesome that what can be sorted out in such an explanatory pattern that a difference would maketh a day.) The muskiness slouches about to a point of apathetic stoppage, and even without looking over his shoulders, he indulges in an artless canvas doorway, knowing that yonder sits his shiny 'hog'. He proceeds out the crafty doorway and hops on a waiting hog, then marbles the intimidation of a purplish dusk sky, shrunk into the wispy weight of the void. A friendless hand is naked in the fullness of tremors, all the while failing, fumbling, and fidgeting with the ever-present cell phone. In the growing darkness that creeps forevermore, a motorbike gleams brighter from a streetlight not far off. A cell phone is recognized and it garners a look back in time. A shed smile for the immeasurable lives and their involving histories encased with it. A solitary hand that found an unbelievable grit, steadies for a look-see before putting it in a blue jean vest, as a black leather jacket covers the whole of it. A burly young man who has long come into age is leaning against his motorbike with its kickstand down. His long black hair drapes on both sides of his face, in lowering positions. He takes a few steps away from his motorbike that he left standing. He then turns around to look at it. No rhyme or reason that most would think. For the years that had led up to that point, that one bit of act, would have been thought to be whimsical and nothing beyond that. He looked at the acquirement of it, one that an owner takes an amount of pride. The hard work of laboring hands and skills of a lifetime earned. A lack of emotions describes trepidations of sorts. There's a plethora of voices beyond those competent interpretations. Imagination accounts without validity go amiss. There stands the burly, yet his manhood is called into question. Wherefrom do these phenomena resonate? It's causation that plagues a soul, that tears away the true essence of manhood. Darker and darker, the setting becomes unstable. Oh where? Oh where, has our burly man with long dangling black hair gone? Now, a motorbike stands idle. Near a streetlight, solitary, has exchanged places. A motorbike minus its owner, minus its rider, remains idle, forevermore. A shadow goes wandering into the abyss. It is our lost burly friend that is now newly found. The raw earth made his walk a trudge as significant time is squandered and endeavors become unnecessary. Up ahead a simple footpath alights in a dimming sprawl of stars, although its aloof crown dulls the way that lays in wait, for the one who stalls standing heavily ladened. If in passing it would go unnoticed as a lowered face finds the ground more amusing. The coldness of the dark air breathes a getaway, to a body's held head that unhurriedly wakes, and then only to greet a mask even more frigid. With every passing moment ... joy dies, one letter at a time -- there may be a lack of alphabets. Finally, there is movement, yet slight, the indication is a result of the subject matter. The gesturing continues yet stationary. Oddly, readying one's appearance bears precedence. The combing of his long hair. Now he takes a steadier pace of small measures as if being cautious. Though it's unsettling and unorthodox, he has taken himself away from the footpath, just down and off a bit past some tall shrubbery. Behind him lies the path no longer in his eyesight. There is a glimpse of complacency on his defining countenance. He appears now to encounter acceptance in the quietude of the hour. In this place, the sensation, and familiarity are evolving. The created intimacy is forever growing. An absent smile discovers its misplaced look. All of that now recognizes an outlying field in shadows of obscurity. A new atmosphere reinvents composure and decides a new fate. There is a spirit of oneness. One's failure in life will soon find redemption. A soul prepares, there's no great fanfare. There'll be no stomach for it thereafter. A black leather jacket has a hand in its pocket. Above it stares two resolute eyes whose head goes round to a stop. Now the head tilts back and looks up at the night sky. A starry cathedral appeases the wanting. Upon the instance, an owl is heard hooting in the widening darkness as a semi-automatic pistol comes into view, held by a burly man with long black hair that was recently combed. The owl hoots again to the abrupt flapping of wings and the eerie sound of discontent. In the dawning sun, a motorbike is rolled onto a truck. An ambulance driver is talking to authorities. There's a handful of people. They are looking at the ambulance and it's single occupant on the gurney, that's fully covered. A young woman is talking with the officers, and the gathered is talking about the woman. The ambulance drives off behind a truck and lone a motorbike. An officer carries a plastic bag with a visible Glock 17 semi-automatic pistol inside it. A woman sits behind the police car that drives behind the ambulance. Passing the unsmiling gathered, either sad or mad--some long black hair dangles down a gurney, nicely combed.