He came in on the Greyhound bus with deep brown eyes smoldering like coals in his skull the lines on his face and the final remains of puberty induced acne made his age impossible to guess He put up in the YMCA locked up in his room smoking with the windows open drinking Wild Irish Rose It felt good as it's warmth flowed through his veins he felt the tightness which gripped him dissolve until he felt adrift in an ocean of wine He went out on the streets The city was mostly dead at night which allowed him the privilege of being alone, his destination was unknown and near empty buses filled with few unfortunate to be awake He thought he might like to burn this place down so something, anything could happen to spur him from apathetic footholds their had to be some action, some life, some danger, left in the world, and until then he would drink and smoke and wait to die and he would move, from town to town until the road ran out. A transient