One of them is staring down at Jesus. One of them is staring down at a brand new soul who is the latest victim of a four letter word. One of them is lost and in a rush to reach the fountain on this summer day. There is three of him. Three of him are split among this day and one of her. They are at an office, papers fly around and bury their lives. Cubicles stretch endlessly. Not a thought is had as to why they are here. This story is broken, there are multiple outcomes and locations where they are forced to be by the word of their fathers. One of the three of him has made a terrible mistake. The other believes he is giving the victims soul another chance and that they are alive. They walk around a closed public school, stretching around every corner of the brick and glass it is made up of. The other does not care, searching for peace and unknowing of every dilemma in this is passing her by in a glass hallway somewhere. He smiles, she passes looking down and avoiding the attention. A smile is a weapon, and they are all different here. One of him is playing with her hair, dying it so many elegant colors and taking her everywhere in town so carelessly and beautiful. One of him is alone staring down at the setting sun after taking the life of a poet with an open letter, completely unaware of what he is looking at. The other sits still on a wooden bench in a stone church full of murals, stained glass icons, and the bloody agenda of a faded Christianity.
Things fade as each passing building, park, church and school change so much with every memory they hold. Nothing in this town is the same. Distinctly a memory comes across his head of running to his fathers house on a distant past and demanding a bathing suit. He has found a fountain glistening in a summer sun where she is waiting for him and they are one. Nothing would be a better idea than to swim and feel the lightness and content flow of the water as he puts his arms around something pretty. Yet mistakes prevail. Once again he is split, once again he takes the wrong path and finds nothing but the wrong person, the wrong fountain, the wrong father. Still everything stands and stares so blankly as it surrounds him. Every once in a while he cannot help but to see the blankness of a mountain or a broken water slide as he looks forward. What is looking forward to him? What does he see when he has the ability to see everything but the fear of seeing nothing? He is three. Three, like a math equation or a riddle his grandfather challenged him with at a Christmas dinner. Distorted is he in the heat of each moment.
Eventually, all at once every part of him comes together and he firmly grasps an end.