From the Mouth of the River

It is from the mouth of the river that the sea takes its sustenance.

You sit at the table, cigarette in hand, drink before you, and you watch the door. In time, and in libation, nothing begins to matter to the exception of all else. There are comings and goings, conversations and arguments about less than nothing. It is the way of things. It's just you and the six billion. There are too many, you might drown in them. Closing in, they menace with yellow teeth and the sweet, tempting breath of the dying. Where does the time go?

Heading for the door, the poignancy of the scene left behind is not lost on you. Men and women, happy, enraged, sad, delirious, all sliding to their fate, slow as hell. You and the six billion. Where does the time go? The fresh air changes your direction. Suddenly, everything is fresh and clean. Now, its you who are menacing, belligerent and deadly. You see faces, repulsed, amused, fearful. Trying to become invisible, you trip on to your destination, such as it is. Rushing water sounds in your head.