As night falls the distractions fall away, shedding their thick coats until his consciousness is as naked as the sky above. His synapses' roar rivals a drag race.
The day's hollow laughter calms and his mind unsheathes the sword, preparing the nightly seppuku.
How many lives has he lived without even pressing a button? Late-night ambitions start a fire the morning will blow out.
He'll wake up late and continue his faux existence, pre-ordering plans he'll pick up some other day.
Footsteps down the stairs, sunglasses on his face, just like yesterday, and most likely tomorrow.
No real change, regression and stagnation - is it possible to marry the two? A redundant thought, he thinks to himself.
The trees give off no shadows for the clouds are dark, countless shades of grey. Passing the park gives no satisfaction.
The same boring elephant fountain sits in the middle of an ugly pond, dry and decrepit – it’s supposed to spit out water but never does.
He anticipates reaching the main street, to glance in restaurant windows, and maybe view new angles on the buildings – a hope for something different.
His sleeve slowly darkens with each landing droplet, like a darker shade of paint dripping on his shoulders. His shirt becomes damp until it sticks to his body – a new layer of skin.
The water gradually rises to his ankles, making each step he takes a little more strenuous. Ownerless umbrellas fill the sidewalk, floating by with an air of indignation.
Busses pour pass him, filling the river sidewalk a little higher, until the water reaches his waist. The current morphs walking into wading, his feet begin to rise and his body tilts.
Holding onto a light pole, he thinks what a crazy image this would be sans water, like some hyper wind billowing toward him, a man holding on for dear life at ninety degrees.