-1

The time is four-fourteen ante meridian, the weather is cold and drippy as usual. Sitting, slouched over, in the front seat of some raggedy secondhand jalopy sits an equally haggard young man. He's puffing cigarettes and thinking of nothing.

Contemplating, adding then subtracting, nothingness. Visualizing the presence of absence. Or, possibly, the absence of presence. That sweet sweaty smell of fresh heat from no longer visible bodies; from departed flesh. A smell that seems to linger- much longer than arms, legs, hands, or feet- like a memory. Standing freely or floating listlessly down hallways, through open doorways and empty bedrooms. Escaping out into space- allowing the enclosed corridors to ventilate- slipping underneath one-inch slits, underneath doors closed or left ajar, only to meet its fate and dissipate in a greater, larger, more immense nothingness.

The car sputters strangely in the manner of a coughing, hiccupping baby as Cain Mourning- the man in the front seat- shifts his weight and sighs softly. Wiping his not very clean hands on his dirty jeans, then rubbing his eyes, he opens wide and forlornly greets the harsh light of rising sun, the pale blue hues of morning.