When tomorrow comes ... (WIP)

The intermittent buzz from the flickering street lights became a nuisance. The moths circled the globe of the street light, occasionally hitting it as if they didn’t care. Someone’s dogs barked announcing their readiness to enjoy the comforts of inside. Well lit homes darkened and silence became a symphony of tranquility. I suppose it is like that somewhere in some town in the world. It just doesn’t describe mine…

“The city never sleeps,” I’m not exactly sure who said it or why, but no truer statement could have been made. More happens in the night, in the dark, than anyone would ever fathom. Whether, its young love blossoming in a back seat or the waitress outside grabbing a smoke, three pats and a wink away from paying her light bill. Inside the diner, a delivery truck driver watches a flickering flame from a single candle in the center of a blueberry muffin. He reflects how forty-five years have passed in an instant. He attempts to recharge himself by nursing a cup of coffee and grabbing a bite to eat before starting his second job.

Nights filled with tears, like the woman weeping in the shower for no other reason than she needed to let one out. We have the people who enter their uptown, high-priced apartments, pouring themselves a drink staring blankly out their windows. Realizing, they can't remember the last time they had a conversation about something that really mattered, or the father who sits silently in the dark wondering where the rest of the rent money is coming from, which was already ten days late. The people sitting in their apartments; frozen in the fear that comes when someone or something had stolen their illusion of freedom.

Lives are forever changed from a buff, snort, or stroke. Smoke-filled bars, back alleys, and shooting gallerys filled with people trying to find a way through the pain. As if somewhere in the fog, somewhere in the haze relief comes, Relief from the pain that never leaves. It just lingers in shadows of what you are trying to escape. It waits to tackle you again, each time a little harder. Night watchmen guard its whispers, while streetwalkers greet the newest members and welcome the regulars. These women stare into the darkness, in a fog of stale cigarettes and drunken sweet nothings; wondering where it all went wrong. Some just wanted to make the movies people talked about over dinner. Others did what they needed in order to survive.