The universe is superfluous to my every need and me to those of it. I’m well versed and yet hardly converse through fear of being found out, but it’s okay, because what am I, but a drunken layabout with a fear of fresh air and the company of others. A woman on the bus has her hair tied in a bun. She’s skag-skinny with a stench that tickles the back of my tender throat. The guy next to her looks like Rod Steiger; a poorly Rod Steiger either two weeks away from death or two weeks removed from a bad stage performance that’s left him on the verge of another breakdown. The guy’s on the phone begging for pills to ease the pain of his shakes. I can’t tell if it’s drugs or drink. Judging by the grey, translucent nature of his skin, I’d say it’s both. I hate him for his weaknesses and yet at the next stop, he lets me get off before him. I bow my head out of shame. My memories don’t comply with anything, and even though I’m so much older, I’m still greedy. I can’t help it, I don’t know why I’m like this, even though deep down I do. In my dreams, Rod Steiger’s intestines are located within a clam. Pigtails. 3:15am and a door that opens with no one on the other side. There’s blood smeared on the bathroom floor; the stained linoleum resides in an apartment overlooking a park. There’s fog and a lone hotdog stall. There’s a girl running towards it, or perhaps running away. She looks like a ghost. Tiredness prevents me from discerning the truth yet again.