There were a lot of moments, moments that meant nothing to anybody but Sam, the dope eyed loner with nothing to do at any odd moment, seemingly, ever. A 40 year old now, he walked down streets alone, noticing nothing, apparently seeing nothing. There was a time when he was married that things mattered to him, but now it seemed all of the doors had closed. What seemed possible then was impossible now. The world was a self running machine whose fuel was merely money. What good to talk to others now that he knew this? So he didn’t. He walked.
Down Piedmont Street and up Dunbar, round Wayne Avenue then back down Stream to his apartment on Maple, just off the main street within a stones throw of a Baker’s Pharmacy and Subway sandwich shop. There in the yellow light of his room, a simple bulb made yellow through his own painting of it with spray paint, he sat and stared at his ceiling or read a book that he would usually put down after a few pages. Many days he would simply sleep waiting for his disability check to come in. Life floated over his head. Action was for others. There was music, but it only filled space, splayed time momentarily until he would shut it off through boredom and continue only to listen to the drones of empty space in an unwanted corner of the universe. God? A non-issue anymore. Such romantic fantasies lived in the minds of the young and those who had somehow made money off of such spirituality. Even the dreams had stopped. Was it possible to become a stone?
But even though his soul was tired Sam continued to milk himself for promise. He would look at things and relish things such as being cool when it was hot outside or being able to sleep when tired.
The Fargo Kantrowitz'z Literary Campsite 