The Horse

by Willy Vlautin

He was sixty-four years old and had shat himself in the doorway of a third-rate motel room.

I gotta say, Al, the whole world makes me want to throw up. I don’t see the point of anything really.

If he looked back on it, how much of his life was spent just killing time?

They’ll hold my hand to save me and I’ll repay them with darkness and disaster But even so I’m begging you Please don’t let me die here in Lancaster