He

He walked outside, looking around at the asphalt graveyard full of inanimate cars, and lit a smoke. Tuesday... Lunch time... His mind still reeling from the tedious work. He is surviving, but merely existing... His ghosts hang around his neck like a rusty anchor. He sits in his overpriced car, and thinks of nothing. The black, ominous inevitability is always looming in the back of his mind... Alone in a swarming crowd; aimlessly seeking refuge, and forgiveness for all his foolish sins... He's breathing. Isn't that enough? He is doing better they say. He's not making the same mistakes anymore... And in an instant, the clock reads 12:34. Back to the tedium of his work...