When the room does finally start to spin, everything else stops. There is not reason to think about all the undead walking around outside. There is no reason to think about much else but the fading light that leaks away into some other forsaken place on the other side of the world. The shapes fade away in the room, and then I'm just spinning in the dark. I don't care too much if there is light or not, everything has stopped for a moment, and I can work with that. When there isn't much but the thin stream of smoke that permeates the air from the cigarettes in my hand, and the smell of whiskey on my breath, everything else doesn't seem to matter. Its funny the way that works. Even back in the land of live-people, cars in traffic, lines at fast-food joints, and cracked-out homeless guys reserving their right to give you oral sex for cash, being drunk as shit really helps to get your mind off the 'normal' things that go on around you. Normal now is a bunch of 'people' with their insides dragging on the floor trying to get your insides to drag on the floor.
"When I think about it... being blitzed doesn't seem to keep me away from one question... and that's... what else could be out there... passed this place... could there be... others?"
In here, this little place that I've called home, when the timings just right, and the spinning stops for a while until I gather myself and then take more juice, it does get a bit lonely. From time to time, I find myself writing in my journal about the possibility of there being people out there. Its been approximately I don't know how long, and I haven't seen a hint or sign of there being anyone else. It's kind of like a face-plant on a cement floor when you are being stupid with spins and then have a single heavy thought and then it stops, but this time, so does the spinning. The room comes back to a halt, and then you stare. You stare at the wall, the floor, the door, the bottle of whiskey, the shot glass, the pack of cigarettes. Each with its own time frame of some-odd minutes or hours. And the thought replays like some old record player. And then, like a siren in the middle of a whiskey ocean the shot glass looks empty, so you fill it up.
"It kicks back in... and I feel like an astronaut in training... but the 1-ton thought never goes away... the only thing I hate about this... the being alone bit... its a real... drag..."
The time goes by too slow to measure how long its been. The only way I know that the night is over is the fact that the light comes back from some place; and I don't feel intoxicated any more. I find myself staying up for hours with bits of dozing off here and there, with no real time to rest in a place like this, you kind of feel like the dino-bones on display at the museum. After centuries of what you thought was going to be peace and quite, you're stuck with the incessant and undulating crowds. Even though in my case, I'm the one alive and the crowds are dead.
"I know that it isn't much, coming from a drunk guy right now, but there isn't much else to do around a place like this. Scavenging for food and water, then drugs and liquor, then if you feel up to it... people."
If there is one thing that you forget, that's how to greet someone. After all this time not seeing a single decomposing face without blood and other weird shit, you lose the sense of having proper manners. Because out here, who the hell really cares. Every day goes by with the hopes of finding a single sliver of life, but the only thing that is even remotely equivalent to this is the sound of bugs in the air. There aren't any birds on the wires, dogs running around, or cats on the tops of the roofs. Seems like they're smarter than I think most people gave them credit for.
The room that had been moving fast is now slowing, and I can feel my senses fading. Just like the last bit of sunlight. It takes hold of my body slowly, and then I can feel my eyes shut. I fall asleep, just sitting there, with nothing more then my small amount of stuff and half empty bottle of whiskey to keep me company. All the shapes have left me, but I know where everything is. And for the time being that is close enough to a reality that I once knew, because even then, that's what I used to keep me company. And I fall asleep... Just hoping that the trip wire wont go off, and it never does. At least not yet.
"O, Death... O, Death... Won't you spare me over 'till another year... Well what is this... That I can't see... With ice cold hands... Takin' hold of me... Well I am Death, none can excel... I'll open the door... to heaven or hell..."