I look out from my window that sits securely on the third story and I peer out onto the lonely desolate streets that have called my name and beckoned me to be with them at dusk. The windows are an awkward shape and it allows a flowing draft to pinch my nose. Yet, for some reason that I can not explain, it comforts me to know that the wind wants to follow me, here. Houses line up and touch each other side by side without knowing their own names and one catches my attention as it sits quietly in between a funeral home and a daycare center for children. A family in black laments in sorrow for a loss; they never saw it coming, and it is here, it is real, this is reality. And yes, down the lane a young mother that is innocent in her eyes, but guilty in her heart, picks up her daughter by the wrist and tells her to shut up. Is this really the town that I chose to live in?
The house is a grainy yellow that has undergone sever damage of weather patterns that make it impossible to predict what is about to come. The paint falls off slowly and one can see the wood underneath, a putrid yellow wood that eats away at a soul. The windows have been broken but the glass still sparkles in the light of the street lamps that never turn off. One by one each light turns on duty, almost paying respect to the evil that lurks at night on this street. My eyes avert my attention to a cat that waits to find its peace in a corner with some dinner without this society interrupting him. Why does that cat purr so soundlessly at the sky, up into the night? A purr that is so deep, protective, and insecure, as if to say “There must be someone up there, and if there is, please, help.”
As the cat struts along with his head down he sits to stare at a man sifting through the trash of the decaying house material. He is poor and his face shows lines of hate and sadness. His hair is white and curly and flows everywhere that the wind would like to take it, which makes him very irritable. The wind picks up speed, movement, and whips him in the face; it is his own punishment for making mistakes in a beautiful world. It is his repent that his family wanted him to have. His eyes are hidden, and if he can not see, and if the world can not see his eyes, then he does not exist. That is comforting as well.
A woman appears as if out of nowhere and begins to talk with the old beggar and will not leave him in peace. And yes, she as well does not feel sorry for him, but he feels sorry for her. She is plump, short, trying so hard to be accepted. Her head carries a black mop and I can tell that she tries so hard in the morning, in front of that mirror to make herself beautiful. Pretty for who?... for a man in a bar down the street that beats his women so? When she walks past the lamp, and the yellow house, and the child care center, and the funeral home, she catches a glimpse of herself in the broken glass and wonders if she is real. So I watch her persist with the beggar, because he might be the only one in the world that thinks of her as wonderful.
The night protrudes on, forcing the path of destruction, of lame evils to step onto an unknown path. A couple across the lane yells at one another, telling each partner to fuck off and die. Twenty something year old boy stares at the ground and his feet move on, step by step, the lonely cracks feeling warmth for the first time in a year. Clouds move in on the stars territory and they start to argue, one by one, but the stars lose and they begin to cry. A puddle forms on the window sill, and without knowing I put out the flame, the heart of my cigarette in the puddle. I think I may have conquered and achieved victory. The night protrudes on silently without even a whisper.
I am hungry, I tell myself but can not help but watching this street outside of where I live take hold of me and hold me in its arms. Depart, as I will, to find a refrigerator full of nothing but a cool draft that will pinch me in the end.

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