Post by The Wanderer on May 12, 2005 14:25:29 GMT -8
On the street, the fishbowl of the city blossomed with trails of brakelight red and sodium gold. He took a drag, fought the flinch of instinct at the glow of the cherry, and savored the smoke dancing in his atrophied lungs. One of the few reminders of a life long since passed.
It would be more interesting if he actually ran the risk of cancer. At least then there might be more motivation to make use of the time he had left. But time, for him, was a staple good, like bread. Too much goddamn bread.
He spun on his heel, the rubber sole scraping against the concrete. He scanned up the street, then down the street, debating. When he had first arrived here, it seemed the best alternative between a war zone and a madhouse, but the time since had proven otherwise.
It was boring. And that, combined with too much bread, left a bad taste in his mouth. He reviewed the mental spice rack, forcibly avoided the bad joke of Thyme, and fell on the only real option: Variety. And the single path to that end was movement; migration.
He dropped the smoke, snuffing the ember with a twist of his boot. His eyes fell on a nearby puddle, left over from recent rain. Vermin tended to thrive in stagnant water.
No. That’s just not me.
He sifted through the loose ends needing tying; a month, maybe two until he could make a clean break.
Would it really change anything?
Not up to it, loser. Seriously. It’s up to you.
He made his legs start moving, heading back to the apartment.
God I miss L.A.
It would be more interesting if he actually ran the risk of cancer. At least then there might be more motivation to make use of the time he had left. But time, for him, was a staple good, like bread. Too much goddamn bread.
He spun on his heel, the rubber sole scraping against the concrete. He scanned up the street, then down the street, debating. When he had first arrived here, it seemed the best alternative between a war zone and a madhouse, but the time since had proven otherwise.
It was boring. And that, combined with too much bread, left a bad taste in his mouth. He reviewed the mental spice rack, forcibly avoided the bad joke of Thyme, and fell on the only real option: Variety. And the single path to that end was movement; migration.
He dropped the smoke, snuffing the ember with a twist of his boot. His eyes fell on a nearby puddle, left over from recent rain. Vermin tended to thrive in stagnant water.
No. That’s just not me.
He sifted through the loose ends needing tying; a month, maybe two until he could make a clean break.
Would it really change anything?
Not up to it, loser. Seriously. It’s up to you.
He made his legs start moving, heading back to the apartment.
God I miss L.A.
