The Reporter. -monologue

The smoke and the steam leaked out, from dark abandoned buildings. 

There were third world vendors set up on the sidewalk. The old man walked through the dying city. It was dying into a broken down cart. With only hints of it's once proud stature, like a museum, that had packed up, and left a couple displays and posters behind.

He walked with his dirty drab suit, through the foot traffic, everyone looked poor and

desperate. 

It was the reason he chose that town. It had nothing left, but it's culture.

He had dirt and a two day shadow on his face, but he could not see me. 

I followed him back to his room, and into his room, and into his closet, where I hid, where I could see

him in all his glory, that Reporter, banging out visions, on his machine.

And I was fascinated.

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Whistle Clouds. -monologue

Little Beto woke up on the side of the road, he had abandoned the modern world. He rejected the Dialectic.

He had a muddy drab suit, and he lay searching his pockets, doing his morning inventory.

Fixing his tie, he slicked the sweat and grime back in his hair, and stood up.

Slapping that dirt off his suit, he looked on down the road. 

That road, that held him like a baby, that held him like a baby every night.

And he began to walk on down that road, that weaved through the long and empty desert, stretching out before him.

And as the days and the months mumbled by, he walked and walked and whittled, and prayed, and grew old, mumbling.

Mumbling.

And his beard began to grow.

And it grew and grew.

Past his arms, past his legs, down the road, and on down that road, like a river, like a train, rolling across the desert, rolling across the sky, blowing out steam and whistle clouds. blowing out steam and whistle clouds.

And,

Hear Ye! Hear Ye! Oh Man.

He was blowing out clouds, of gratitude, worship, purpose, and joy.






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