Got a particle board thirst on a stolen pallet sofa and I’m trying to find ex-lovers in my own frozen breath.
Sleep’s gonna come three minutes before the train blows its horn to warn the zero cars on the empty street that it’s coming.
The girls from the mission bring donuts from the place that won’t let me use the shitter and their breath smells like breakfast I’m never gonna order.
Six months ago some kid threw a half-ass Molotov into the old transmission plant and I ran to the fire station to tell them it was gonna burn.
Just had to figure someone was inside, and I was right, except that someone was already dead on a floor that never caught fire because I told the fire department there was gonna be a fire.
I didn’t know the person but I was way too late to save them.
Nine times out of ten the firemen probably tell someone like me to go twist their face into someone else’s hole, but they believed me.
I’m sitting here, forgetting how many days it is until I can sell plasma again, wondering how long it would take me to bum enough cash to get a bus ticket to anywhere that might let me sell plasma, and thinking anyplace I go, I’ll still be thirsty and I might not find anyone to believe me, if I find any reason to talk.
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My second book, That Fountain Ain’t Gonna Grant Your Wish is getting amazing reviews. Buy it. I promise you won’t hate it. Click here to get it.
How you get into the mind of the living on the street is uncanny.
Stories like this really show how much you put into your characters.
Living on the street does not mean you don't care - thanks for pointing that out.
Jimmy, nobody brings characters to life like you.