Hot summer city days...

The broken man cools himself off by stripping down (nearly) to his dirty skin. There isn't much else he can do, as no one has yet--in this world of technological wonders--figured out a way to air condition to entire city. So he makes due, as he always has and always will.

Passers-by are less accustomed to real world outside; they are blessed with the artificial skins that modern-day offerings supply to them. They live in spaces of synthetic boundaries, usually made up of brick or wood or mortar (or all); they fill their living spaces with unnatural air, usually of the Freon essence. The broken man lives among these things as well, but his position of submission is not at will, and he is not nearly as intertwined with them as all the others. No way. He never chose it and he doesn't want it. The world of trees and soil and vicious survival seems more appealing in his drunken, reasonable mind. Too bad he can't go back to those days...

And so, the people of the world with whom God gave a real fighting chance rush past the broken man's home everyday from nine to five. His short, thin alley is undoubtedly a complete wreck of trashed objects (although he's never had a problem finding anything). People's passing faces form expressions of disgust and bewilderment at the odors that glide from the alley air into the urban sidewalk and street. The very whiff of moldy bed-clothes and shit-stained underwear-hats is apparently not desirable, and this he's noticed from their curdled faces. These looks occur most most-often on these hot, steamy days, and a little less on colder ones. The humidity absorbs the smell of every city object with a scent, extracts it, and sends it soaring in the gusts of light wind that float into the nostrils of unfortunate beings. This is when he realizes just how little his appreciated comforts mean to the rest of the apparent world.

But it is all insignificant to him, really. These are just thoughts and observations conjured up to fill vacant space in his rusty mind. The smell of funk makes him feel at home, and he would probably have similar reactions to the "clean" odors that drift in and out of their homes. To each his own, he was once told (and he's believed it ever since). They may never understand it, but as he basks in the colorful air around his alley home, he gets the ultimate sense of content, and that is really all that matters to a bored, hopeless, broken man.

He loves his city smells.

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