it's dark out by the time he walks out the elevator doors, forced to walk through the check out line. beeeeep as his hall pass hits the sensor. goodnite. maybe i will never see these halls again. doubtful.
the silence is comfort. the usual workaholic rush hour. just him and his heartbeat in stride.
he climbs the wet metal staircase towards the train and waits. there's more people than usual, all hiding underneith salvation from the downpour. checks the time out of habit not out of caring. it's too late to do shit. and he's too tired to feign. the eyes burn as he turns towards desolate souls. the nite it black and white. slow motion. dead.
the train comes and he jumps on with oversized headphones clinging to his neck. he dares not put them on. this is sureal. to add volume would be a sin.
the smell of piss and the addition or rain reminds him of he is human. strangers passed out in front of his tired eyes.
take me home. take me home. so that sleep may come kill me.
by the time he steps out, the steady rain has turned into sour milk. it's not a downpour, but rather an uproar. there is baptism everywhere.
people run as if it'll help. they place bags and newspapers over their heads while the rest of the body suffers through the motions of oceans overhead. the scene is chaotic like holiday shopping.
steady he walks through. the streets are barely lit, every now and then with flashes of brillance followed by roars of might. leaves crumble to the ground from the weight of solid weather. cloth begins to stick. they cling like beggers.
the streets rapidly fill, blocking him in. looking down, he sees how his shoes are ready to drink, holes open to the heavens like they were meant to absorb. already the socks are overwhelmingly unfortable. like wearing rubber 20 minutes after. wrinkled, wet and full of regret.
he hurrys through, stopping underneith an underpass to light. the cig is wet even before it reaches his lips. inhale. pwwwhhhhh. inhale. checks the wick and sees it fit, barely lit while the neck down starts to curl, turning to mush. how fitting. symbolic.
he moves on with the needles now flying straight into face. he can barely see, partially clouded by hair, partially numb from caring way too long. oh how he longs for bed. redemption. nite turned to day turned to potential turned to? it's the question and the curiousity these days. you know?
and so he cuts corners and jumps puddles and keeps his travel a game. get home and you are rewarded with...
you fill in the blank.
and he gets home. and he clumsily unlocks the front door. the lobby is empty like his home. it's hard to believe that there's not others stumbling home at this hour. he walks through and it's the first he's noticed the squeaking of wet on dry. the same sound of a married man and a bored wife.
the elevator is waiting. "you're late she says." fuck you. the door closes and he looks at the mirrored walls. god you look tired. the hair's a mess like wilderness, wet and matted down. "you belong in the street" he states. and he's right. face down somewhere far from familiar eyes.
doors open and stale walls covered in cheap art greet. the hall is clean at least. someone picked up the trash piled high like sentry towers watching earlier this morn. unlocks the door. flick. light. he kicks off the wetness from his feet and places them in front of a box fan. finds his way to the bathroom and pisses like he's never seen a toilet before.
and then climbs into bed. so this is chicago. so this is what a year under the belt feels like. so this is the beginning of the end. and he smiles as his body adjusts to the rotting smell in the room. the smell of settling.
posted by fillshe @ 11:07 PM
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