This morning.

A hard back wooden chair, thread bare carpet, worn walls who's neglect is evident in part by the peeling paint, cigarette smoke rising from an ashtray on the floor, it's scent mingling with the cup of strong coffee loosely grasped in trembling hands, The view out of the window that of a semi busy street, people and cars rushing by in pursuit of a dying dream, that sight,changing while yet the same, blurred by tears, eyes loosing and regaining focus, not that what the eyes see is really being processed, the mind adrift in sadness, blown about by fears, the body slumped under the weight of despair...