Andrew W.g. Rees

You Never Offered Your Jacket Andrew W.g. Rees

Spinning in circles gazing above at the expanse of the universe and all it holds.

What are we really? A single grain of crazy humanity.
Fortunate to be alive, and that's no stretch of truth.
He's died, more times than the fingers on his paws.
He's got the markings of knowledge in his promising eyes and spirited smile to prove it.
And the power to break him has never been more his own, as it was once yours.

Vulnerable. Gullible. He waits with open arms and growing desire. With the fear of himself, and hope, removed.

What is a life without heartache? Without the best sex you've ever had? Sex that could only occur after ripping the reins out of the coward's grip you surrendered to for so many years. Realizing he was the coward, he resolved to let the wolf run free.

And when you're lying there broken-hearted, your carcass exposing the incomparable heart, the most vital organ, in the end you'll crawl your way back, or get dragged through the sand by the merciful selfless hand of nature and life itself.

"You Never Offered Your Jacket" is exactly that; the burly wild hand we so loosely hold.