How does it feel once life has passed you by? What of the meaning, the point of it all?
The Coffee Shop.
Arteries meander like mine shafts choked with stone dust and scars.
I stay without consequence and order a coffee.
Chaos to order is the plan. Hardly a natural transition.
The newspaper's free, but the sections are jumbled - Life before Art, Business preceding Politics. Someone's taken the news.
Sunlight encroaches - slithering through the glass. Like a child it touches everything but can't reach the high corners.
Lungs ache for fresh air and nicotine, but I'm too tired to get up. Apathy and a pound of tar can be overwhelming.
Time never moves from the stool; why would it? It likes this place, relatively speaking.
Simon and the others are close, near enough to touch, to hear, but I'm frozen like the parking lot and lonely like the filthy car at the back, by the big green garbage bin. Forgotten.
Coffee coats the throat - the taste is furious. Nothing is good anymore, not when you think about it. Not like before, when nothing mattered.
Glass doors open. Shafts of sunlight lurch and ripple, assaulting a motionless patron. Several insiders depart. Outsiders come in from the war.
Side-swiped by the cold, I'm slapped from my coma. It's time to go before they bury me here. Too warm for a winter jacket.
Malevolent atoms in my red plastic seat regroup, absorbing my blue cotton jeans, binding me in a purple haze. My table slides closer with a howl, shackles snapping closed around my ankles.
Stone-dust sediment lines the arteries - nearly full now, shortening each breath, filling every corner, dark again. The anger tastes bitter and strong.
I'll have another - black, no sugar.