Some guy on the sidewalk sweeps broken glass and another looks up at the sky with a look on his face suggesting he’s got no clue as to what’s going on at all. It’s the look I wear every day without fail. The shards of glass glisten and shimmer on the ground. The noise they make as they’re swept along stings my delicate ears and makes the fillings in my teeth throb. Life happens but I never seem to notice first time around. It’s only when loss comes calling that any of it sinks in, and by then it’s too late. Slowing down, I ponder the thought and grimace. And then with one swift move of the hands, I’m unzipping myself and pissing against a dumpster with a smile spreading across my lips. Shuddering like a monkey, my body relaxes and I let out a fart. Even in the fresh night air it stinks something rotten. Giving it a prolonged sniff, I shake my little man and take out some tissue paper from my back pocket and give the ol’ boy a dab. When he’s good, I pop him back in and roll a cigarette accidentally licking my fingers as I do so. There’s a faint taste of urine. I’m not sure whether to curse or laugh, so I do both and suck down some smoke to make it all better. Makes me giddy. Makes me take a few steps back until I’m leaning against a brick wall eyeing up the neon signs and the stars beyond uncertain as to if it’s meaningful or useless. Not sure. Don’t care. Do care. Staggering about for a bit, I picture the world the way Van Gogh did when he painted Starry Night. It makes things feel better. Makes it seem as if though these footsteps aren’t in vain even though in the grand scheme of things they’re insignificant like everything else. And yet still I attempt to give a voice to these tiny pieces of magic before they vanish because if I don’t they’ll be lost for eternity. Imagine if Van Gogh never painted Starry Night. Imagine a world without his sunflowers, without the self-portraits or the night cafés and fields of crows. If he never put paint on canvas all those years ago, we’d never have known the beauty of his troubled soul, and a troubled soul is a precious thing indeed.
Author S. K. Nicholas 
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