shelter
I awake. No, that’s the wrong word. I come to mid-wretch. I twist on the bench and face the cement below. It feels cold even without touching it. Strange, with the dark air warm, pushing against my skin.
There’s vomit there. Even in my near-zombie state, I quickly realize it’s mine. Or was it the cement’s? Possession can be so confusing. It stares up at me, laughing.
Turning over, onto my back, the sky is black beyond the sheet metal roof, through the glass of my cage. No, not a cage, a bus stop. Why am I at a bus stop?
I sit up and the entire continent moves with me. I hope no one lost their balance. The granite settles to the basalt and it’s clear it’s not dark.
It isn’t light either. Not really. What time is it? Someone replaced my watch with a blurred Venn diagram.
The first few steps are sludgy, heavy but that fades, replaced by the gait of a man spinning a Hula-Hoop simultaneously. Luckily there’s no one around to witness my spirited mimicry of a Weeble.
The hours fall away but the sun fears rising. There is only the dull, jittery light darkness. No, that’s not right. It only feels as long.
At the door, the keys miss their mark once, maybe twice. I lock up and stumble out of my jeans. The mattress hugs me and I fall to sleep.
No, pass out.