I glanced along the causeway thinking of Billy Holloway painting portraits along the brick walls of his drunken, broken dreams. I wanted to scream to the universe, to god, to the all, to the darkness. This was all an empty waste. The numbers rolled in my head, a cascade of meaningless digits. The faces, Christ, the faces, slack and empty, leaked the fluids of life through eyes, nostrils and ears. Such small faces. The hungry feral cats and dogs watched, saliva dripping. A wordless scream, I couldn't bite back, rose like bile to the top of my throat, then burst forth. A meaningless cry of anguish that pierced my heart and mind, left me breathless and hobbled.
Memories I once thought chained and locked away, surfaced, scratching and biting at the meager defenses I had managed to construct. Neither words, promises nor prayers halted the onslaught. I trembled with a stomach churning anticipation. Sweat formed, slick and pungent.
"S'cues me, I was drifting. What did they say about the minimum wage?"
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