Walking home in the rain. The bar had been too warm, the night is refreshing. Familiar cities are supposed to make the loneliness easier to handle, like the land knows you. Usually, I'd agree, but not tonight. As the lightning crackles in the distance, all I can think of is how far I have left to go and how heavy my feet suddenly feel. With everything I give a shit about so far away, the sky looms enormous above my head. As the rain falls faster, I try to summon up the old rage, fling a little spite at the world to lift myself up, but it's not there. Tonight, all things are cast aside, even my last reserve of hatred. I lift my gaze skyward once more, blinking away raindrops, half wishing one errant bolt would strike me where I stood. How long I stand here, I have no idea, but the feeling of vertiginous flight is overwhelming, as if I'm floating through physical memories not yet formed. I lower my eyes to find that the cigarette I had hardly noticed lighting has burned down to my fingers. With a heavy sigh, I continue the long walk home. Home, someplace I've yet to find, someplace I half hope I never reach, someplace I doubt exists.
Cities are supposed to know you. This one does well enough to leave well enough alone.