It's the rain that'll keep me in today. I say this to myself. Even though the cat is present behind me, offering a groan to the situation. I say this to myself.
As I stand by the window overlooking Cameron St., cars cruise by, splashing through each divot in the road. Soaked garbage bags sit stacked on sidewalks and the light from street lamps inches across the early morning fog.
I turn back to the empty room. It's dark, but I keep the lights off. No use for eyesight in here.
Then there are sounds from the hallway. A neighbor stumbling down the steps with her little terrier. "We'll have to be quick today," she's saying as the dog pants excitedly. Skitters by my door. Then they're below my window. Her voice carries through the rain, as I can only imagine she continues to give the dog details of the day and praises for being a dog. A good dog, no doubt.
But I return to the floor. To the cold wood. The cat wanders over and sniffs my shoulder. The side of my face. My beard. Then he struts to the other side of the room. Plops down. Drags his tongue over his back.
And I think of the city. How this day was to be filled with it. My time. My consciousness. But that was stripped from me somewhere, and although I believe I have the power to search it out and retrieve it, I lay on the floor. I blame the rain. Or is it snow now? The drops seem to have gained more mass. Grown larger. Become fluffier. Whiter. I can't really tell from down here though.
And there's a despondency that slides over me. Today is done. I woke to see the sunrise and it turned its back on me. Am I not good enough?
Well, there probably wasn't anything gratifying out there anyway. Nothing to tickle or entice my being. To fulfill these whimsical urges. Nothing to satisfy this observational apparatus and the ghoul within.
Snow is falling harder now. Time to settle. Like a frozen fragment of precipitation joining his fallen siblings on the dirty ground.
Right.
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