It was two floors of dirty brick a block down from the railway station and over a wholesale plumbing house. I was in one of the rooms, such as it was, lying on my back on a very narrow, very hard bed, lying in the dark with my mind a black river in which nothing lived, lying there with my eyes open, watching the reflection of headlights slide up the wall and on across the scaly ceiling and into nothing, lying there with only my coat and hat off, like an alcoholic waiting through election day for the polls to close and the bars to open.
The Taste of Ashes
Howard Browne
1957
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