He stared straight ahead in the darkness, at a wall – or an ethereal reminiscence, lit only by spare illumination from lambent gas lamps in the street below. What played in his thoughts was no mistake, no play on his vision: He beheld a boy on a horse, stared at him as if his life depended on it, searing a moment in time forever. Those eyes! He would never, could never, forget those eyes. And the being staring back had seemingly also seen a ghost. Except the mutual ghosts were real, figments of the great long ago, when times were ugly and men fought. But, two boys, now grown, locked eyes in a struggle to recall, or forget. Lives moved on, but time coursed through shadows on a wall, remembering, eternally, still.
Fast is fine, but accuracy is everything. ~ Wyatt Earp