He's back home, the door beckons him, a blue decaying mass of wood held together by the lock, chewing gum and hope.
He fumbles with the keys, the hurry to just hit the bed and stare at the empty ceiling and the cob webs and the shadows… his companions when he's in a gloomy mood. Today passed in such a blur. He wonders that why is it that when you're down, everything just seems to happen either too slow or too fast for you to handle.
His thoughts race. His mind a whirlwind of emotions. The voices are getting to him now. Why does this happen?
Why this silence when its raining outside, the wind is cold and chilly, the traffic is blaring? Why is it all so quiet? And why did he not get that pack of cigarettes when there was still time to get one?
Why?
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