Howard, Monday Morning
Howard wished that he could spend all of his days like this, hunched over a book next to a rainy street, contemplative piano music and the smell of coffee all around him. No responsibilities but being aware of himself, and his book, and the few customers who sauntered into the shop out of the rain, exchanging pleasantries with the baristas and finding their own humble corner in the store. He knew that it was the fetishized ideal of so many of his age to feel this way, but Howard had a true honesty in his appeal. He didn’t want night to come. Night meant confusion and doubt. Night meant drinking with strangers and hobbling up seedy, broken streets to collapse in his bed under a haze of inebriation and tobacco stench. Night meant bringing out all the worst things in Howard that he could hide inside his head during the day.
No, howard didn’t want the evening to come. Not even the profundity of an orange sunset over downtown was reason enough to suffer for it. He wanted mid-morning and raindrops on the window. He wanted to be obligated to himself and not to strangers. Howard wanted to be free.
But morning always passes. The temporality of our lives never leave us; night would come, and Howard was always left drained, and dreaming of a way to set in stone the cruelty of the clock.
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