He walked through the flowers and he relished in the cliche of it all and he stepped into the bathroom for a quick wash. The steam rose and his spirit rose and soon the humidity made him uncomfortable and he walked back down the street to get something to eat.The butcher was closed and the grocer was closed and the laundry was open.

It was night.

The dim light feathered the opaque darkness and the dim light invited him into its warmth, its comfort. The sun was rising behind the machines humming out of sync with the universe. The flowers had blossomed. He smelled them and was overjoyed at the sight of his bed and the sound of the calf. He sat and he lied as the stalks were flattened and the stems were broken. He slept and he slept and the lights flickered and died.

It was day.

The nightside table creaked as it leaned in and he reached over and the book opened, welcoming. The symbols were beautiful and grotesque with meaning. The movement faded. Beyond the contemporary, but what after? His plate was lost and he was hungry and I was tired.

It is 12:42.