I have no story worth telling.
I am a living phantom, a nobody, a shadow on an alley wall projected from a gutter, gone in the flash of a police light and swallowed back up by blackness in its passing. There is nothing here for me, and though I despise this place, I cannot dream of one better. Misery is my constant companion in a very literal sense. It speaks to me, building me up, just to tear me down again later. I can’t turn it off. The scum that fills my veins piles up in my brain and pours occasionally from my rotten mouth. My body is positively erupting with bad vibes and filthy undercurrents, and I let anyone within screaming distance know about the constant anguish I feel whether they want to hear it or not (they don’t). My reflection is another faded memory of a John disappeared after a night of drugging and whoring, returned to an empty bed waiting to exit an emptier life; like an escalator that keeps going up or down or wherever that leaves one with the choice of waiting for infinity or leaping into an equally infinite abyss to get off.
One day, it will be as if I never existed.
What a waste.
Towers of Rust 