Slow days. A slow life. Some dreams to keep you company and some reality that does its best to keep you chained to the rest of them. It rains from the moment you wake. Rains and rains and pisses it down and you can never figure out if it numbs your confusion or just makes things worse. The curtains are stained with smoke. The smoke from your cigarettes, and the smoke from your candles. You should wash them. Should start with the small things and work your way up, but instead, you just sit around waiting for change. Maybe it will come out of nothing. Maybe it will flower like a weed does through the cracks in the pavement, like those you would skip around when you were a kid on your way back and forth between school never knowing such days would one day come to an end. Maybe the change will come with the storm. The storm that comes with the approach of another, or maybe you’ll just stick two fingers up at everything and everyone and not worry about having to explain yourself for wanting to live life on your own terms. Or maybe you’ll just light another smoke and sit by the window looking outside at the cats as they dart beneath one vehicle to the other, or at the random strangers that move head down as if ashamed at not being able to escape the horrid fact that despite their money and possessions, they’re just lowly animals the same as their feline counterparts. In their faces, you can see their sorrow, and even though they try their hardest to keep it hidden, it’s there for all to see. Unbeknown to them, they’re waving a flag everywhere they go secretly wishing to be saved, and yet they’ll do all they can to prevent others from getting anywhere near under their skin. And that skin, That useless, useless skin. How it stretches and fades like the dreams it keeps within. These slow days. They bloom for an hour or so and then all that’s left is to watch them as they run away like those cats that eventually get fed up with being fed the same tasteless jelly shit that’s a million miles from the blood and guts of the mice and birds they desire above all else. The best thing is to be like them. To take off your clothes. Take off your skin, and leave it all behind. For this place was never meant for us at all.