most of the time, Half goes by he, by human, by handsome, by healthy; it opens doors, you understand, among the white-haired wealthy. but Half can’t palate pale, and loses track of money, and gets angry when asked for his tale, and helps himself when there’s honey (for him it’s a different flavor than most things most people call sweet), so Half never stays so far in favor with any one area’s elder elite.
it’s a living. if it’s lonely, none around would know it. as this he, Half moves too much too soon to ever show it. but then, of course, there are the other Halves, and some of them are still enough to read: the woman with the muscled calves, who cuts herself shaving and stares where she bleeds; the head-down hard worker on the nightshift at the plant; the child-sized figure in the park, in raveled sweaters, who feeds caramels to the ants.
some say the most revealing is the dog in the night-time, who whimpers, and begs, and bays. but trust me when i tell you, it’s when Half’s a flock flying: always changing inner ranks, always filling in new blanks, always on the wing migrating, always half the world away.