It was nothing, not a thing, but everything just the same. The music blared, and he sat still, still in the pleasant emptiness, nothing more to search for, nothing more to strive toward. It all came down to a nothingness in the end.

He saw his reflection in a pool of water, remember that? She had stood there by his side, and dogs had been howling for the passing ambulence. In those days he didn't need to try, didn't need to consider so much. Didn't need to brood about home, about his father, a shadow there in the dark. In those days.

But now here he sat, the rain coming down hard outside the window. Or was it raining inside the apartment? Inside his room?

There had been a knock on the door, he thought. But in such a condition, he just couldn't be sure. Was he overmedicating himself? Was that the root of his problems, or the solution to them. Whatever, he was far gone. And that was not to be debated.

If I walk down to the river again, he thought, will I find the same peace there? Of course not. But what will I find? Will these thoughts lift from me, and will I be cleansed? Can't be sure if I don't try. But sitting here is so...comforting. And that's all anyone asks for, isn't it? What is intellect, what meaning, what purpose, what solitude; if in the end it comes down to the comfort of sitting in a chair, listening to the hard rain?

A light now. An odd, blue light. What's happening to me? Am I turning, becoming something other than what I was yesterday? Becoming tomorrow? And if I'm becoming tomorrow, where did I go just now? Into what back alley did I just slip down? And where am I headed?