The city pushes its way reprehensibly through the billowing night fog. It's just me and a homeless man who smells like piss and a bit of cigarettes, but the cigarette smell might be me. When I'm too drunk in the middle of the night I always end up on this same bus, with the same disheveled-looking old lady driver. Either that or there's fifty bus drivers in this city who all look nearly the same. She always smacks her gums at me disapprovingly as I stumble onto the bus, trying to convince some Neanderthal that I'll definitely give him a call in the morning, absolutely.
Everything about this city is trivial, it's almost nauseating. Old stores, old gas stations, old shut-down gas stations, mom-and-pop diners; like swallow's nest, it's a mixture of feathers from dead animals, mud, and sticks and spit.
This city has no heartbeat.
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