It's hot. Also, I'm not wearing any socks. My flat wasn't too far from the local shop. Sweaty-ass feet sliding around inside of my sneakers. A pair of fucked-up Adidas Samba's. The humidity is immediately apparent, as I pass through the threshold of the lobby to my building, onto the cracked-concrete sidewalk of the city. Hotter than a motherfucker, I think to myself. I check my phone. Mid-day, starting to get later. Waking up late is my specialty, but the night hasn't even started yet. This is the standard. I make this trek nearly daily, at this point. Reaching into the pocket of my shorts, I remove my slightly crumpled, tattered pack of smokes. Mentholated Lambert & Butler's. Ehhhh. Not the greatest. The smoke drifts from the end of my cigarette in my hand, as I fiddle with my earbuds, plugging the copper end into the port, to keep me company as I move down Bunyard, to the corner of the A6 and Clibran. The local Off-License is rather run down, but it works. The man's the same skin color that I am, so there's always some sort of conversation to be had. I toss out my cigarette, after a solid 6 minutes of walking, making my way through the door. It's air-conditioned in here, and I pop my earbud out of my left ear, respectfully. "Hey mate, how've you been? The usual, I take it?" The cashier asks of me. He sees me at about the same time daily, so he's already aware. A pack of L&B's, a Raspberry Lucozade, and a fifth of Glen's. Shit is practically rubbing alcohol, but it's better than Tesco Value. As I make my way to the counter, man's already got my smokes and liquor bagged up. He rings up my Lucozade, because mixing Lucozade and Glen's Vodka is the only way to prevent a hangover from the shit. I pull out my wallet, handing over a crumple 20 pound note. I close my eyes for a second, to breathe in, listening to the sounds of The Clash's "Charlie Don't Surf." "Your change mate. Have a decent one, yeah?" He says to me. He hands me a handful of coins. Coins? I gave the man a 20. I look at him, and look back at my hand. It's the proper change, for what I purchased. "Yeah, thanks." I say. Not much in the mood for conversation. I take my leave, stuffing the unlabeled Vodka in my back pocket of my jeans. I pass through the glass door, noticeably shattered, carrying the can of liquid in my hands. Stepping outside, there's no more music. All I can hear is an industrial whir. My feet hurt, not wearing socks in my boots, again. I crack open the liquid I just bought, and the water hisses a carbonated hiss. A red can of Breen's Reserve. I pocket the rest of the tokens from my change, and light a cigarette, from my unlabelled pack. Brown, with the Union logo embossed into the paper. I sigh. There's little to no sunlight, from the sheer amount of smog in the air, and the oppressive, monolithic building blocking the sunset. My flat gets half a day of sunlight. Walking back to my flat, up the same street that I'd come down. Collations Road. It's not much of a trek, since I can simply walk into my flat through the massive hole in the back-side of my flat. Nobody gives a fuck if you walk through their yard anymore, anyways. And as I sit down to finish my Breen's Reserve, and crack open my shitty, probably poisoned dose of Ethanol, I look from the second floor, onto the first floor, through the hole in my floor, where the CWU tore up my floor to run some cabling through the house, and never fixed it. I wonder to myself - life just is.