The last of the patrons finally went out the door and I stand alone, with mop in hand, looking at the vast wasteland that is the dirty floor. Another night, another dolla......heartbreak. Not knowing how to get out of this pit of snakes, I start to slop the dirty water on the dirtier tiles full of coffee, excrement, dirt, footsteps and loads of other unfathomable smut that is carried in from the streets with all it's intersections and crossroads.
Left and right, left and right, right and left the mop handle goes and the more suds that gather, the more sweat forms on the back of my head to remind me of the bags under my eyes and my aching heart. The weather outside has turned frozen and in here; well it is toasty thanks to the steam. A perfect, winning combination for the common cold to get caught in. I continue with the task at hand and wonder if anyone ever really knows where they will end up eventually? It all seems so trivial that I believe people try their hardest not to show that they have just simply given up. I don't know what else to think.
After the 48th tile, the vast walls made out ceiling high glass become covered completely in the perspiration of the contrast in temperature. Where others see yet another task, I see a template, a mural, a blank page to desecrate.