A long night.  An empty sunrise.  Wandering the city street, sprinkled with morning gold, should have been beautiful.  But staring into empty eyes in the cracked mirror of a corner store is nothing of poetry or paintings.  

A dirty shirt with too many stains to count, a pair of jeans that reek of sin and sweat, hair untidy, and face bare.  Desolate.  Blank expression, wasted bones. The people walking by think this is a statement.  In a way it is.  It screams out, Who is out there?  Who will save me, please?  

Splash water onto your face, and cuss at the person pounding on the door (Gas stations always have the dirtiest bathrooms).  Use your finger as a toothbrush.  Borrow the body spray that sits on the counter.  Walk out, with hands shoved into pockets and pants; or clutched at heads that will not stop the drilling.  

Make your way home.  

Until you remember that you’ve forgotten what home even is.