This however was new. The room was foreign. The dim lighting due to a dark sheet attempting to block out the light of the day he could see the outline of the window thru the sheet, It looked like a small TV up high on the wall. He discerned he was in a basement. He was still dressed; well he had his pants on. And looked around for his shirt and shoes in the dim lights, rolling out of the bed and searching the floor. Found them and he slowly open the door of the room, and he looked out. The rest of the apartment was dimly lit and empty. He heard the shower. In the kitchen he found a purse, he fished 5 dollars out the wallet. Let him self out of the apartment, and walked off down an alley to find a place to get a pack of smokes and a cup of coffee. As he walked he wondered whose house that was.

“My feet are at your Door....” a turn of phrase that turned in his mind, he pondered the simple menace of the statement, it was cold, and he smiled. The warm summer sun had wilted, the season had become gray, and the rain, the winds were here. The year has come to an end, the next was already unfolding. One hardly noticed, until the disease of the flesh, life, had consumed the best part. This weather was a reminder to those that would listen, that indeed the feet were at the door.

Charlie Johnson entered the only way that there was. And as he progressed, he became all the more aware that he was getting closer to the end. He could see it the halls narrow, and his future was drawing to a close. He wondered if the lemmings ever felt this way. Forward on and over the cliff. He wondered if at any onetime a single Lemming said, “Fuck it,” and deviated instead, he shook his head, it didn’t seem likely. The memories of the days past fade, but are replaced in sleep by dreams; bodies that speak and that move; slowly melt in coming dawn. He dreamt of her again last night. He had written her a month ago. She returned that he not write back.

He stood there waiting there for his train to come. Not the diesel train of before, now it was an electric rail train, it was quiet. He actually hadn’t been on a diesel in sometime. But he was sure that in some deep heart of the city the diesels must have been running. Their forward movement of mass was non-replaceable, that was at least understood for any reasonable person. He had, unfortunately, gone out of fashion. His ideals and understanding where some years beyond vogue, not practical, or insightful, rather they often seemed quaint and sometimes even warm. And yet somewhere in the unfathomable streets of the inner city, the diesels did run. Would the train ever stop? Didn’t seem likely.

The memories of the earlier days, the youth spent at the train station. The afternoons at the platform, He would sit. In the corner, a comic book, or magazine hiding the eyes. He would sit and watch the people. Watch them come, and go. Be met, leave alone, sent off, or arrive alone. He watched the people. They were all there, and they all acted out their joy and their sorrow adding to or taking away from the eternal loneliness. As we came, as we go, we are alone. The train stopped, the doors opened, he got on. These trains had no drivers, no smoke, no porters, and no noise; only advertisements and hobos. The rain streamed downs the window and he and the rest rattled down the track in the dark.