He sat in a dark room. Pitch black. Just a light from his cell phone. Trains went by throughout the night. Steel hitting steel. Northern Pacific carrying crates and pulling cars. A caboose at the end. This loud noise in the dark. The noise of travel, leaving, going somewhere. He’d been many places.

Canada, Quebec, Vermont, Maine, New York, New Jersey, New Hampshire, Connecticut, Texas, Arkansas, Mississippi, California, New Mexico, Colorado, so many more. Hitchhiking over state lines in the heat of the day. Sleeping under bridges. His was a hobo life. It was a manic life. Couldn’t stay still. Always on the move. Comfort was found in strangers arms. Late at night. Carousing bars and midnight diners. Cups of coffee. Shots of booze.

And he went through old telephone numbers. Old friends he owed money to. Ex-wives ex-girlfriends, ex-lovers. He’d never see them again. Days of youth.

Bugs crawl on the floor. He feels them when he walks to the bathroom. Blankets stained with blood. His blood. Spends too much time thinking of the old days. Nothing to look forward to. Just darkness.

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