He clutches the padding to his body as if in waiting for a baseball to sore through the air to hit him square in the chest.
But when he opens his eyes and sees it is just the aliens dancing on the sidewalk, he eases up a bit. Some things never change. It seems to him a daily parade of the mundane and the ridiculous mesh together in a dance so sublime only a drunk, like himself, sees it.
It’s his show, day after day. An old poster of a band, from long ago, reminds him that he has a wall all his own. In the other world, people go to work, come home to families, watch TV all night, and slip off to sleep, only to wake and repeat the same process day after day after day. Life isn’t meant to be a single stream of sameness in his opinion.
His memory holds the image of suited people surrounding him, while he lay on the floor. Their faces elongating and morphing into haunting images and the sounds echoed and blared loudly telling him he didn’t fit in, he wasn’t positive enough and had no business sense and why was he on the floor, anyway? But it was a long time ago.
