He stepped out onto the empty street. Hands in pockets, head bent low. With no patience to wait for his mind to cure itself, he doesn't know any different. So as per usual, he walks down Hemlock Street and finds the shelter he's so accustomed to.
When will he begin to wonder why he's even here? Or does it not matter to him? Does he kid himself with the drugs he's had to depend on for the many years? Only he can answer.

As he settles himself down in his alcove of drug filled hatred, a stranger passes. Obviously, this particular stranger (as there are so many passing through) is relatively new to the area, otherwise, he'd be sure not to be found on Hemlock Street.
The relatively quiet words reminiscent of a vague "Excuse me," are uttered to our man in his alcove.
Again, another feeble "Excuse me," is worded, but, this time with slightly more feeling.

the pinnacle of which we are at

false advertising

Tags: wrong
Current Mood: blank

Sleep I'd be tired (right?)

But I don't and I find myself constantly wide awake at the most awful of hours.
Though, when I need to be awake and alert, my head tips forward. "A slight lapse," - I tell myself, a slight lapse is all it was.

All alone with my thoughts. That's what happens when I sleep.
All alone.

Current Mood: lonely