A man was stabbed to death across the street from the coffee shop that I do most of my writing last night. He was out in front of a bar. I walked through the spot he died in. I saw and felt and heard what he probably saw and felt and heard in the last few moments he had among us all. The ground he lay on and felt pressed against his face is soiled with the feet of bar patrons, spit of bar patrons, and vomit of bar patrons.
And now the blood of a bar patron.
The lights from the sign that lit the last moments of his life are riddled with reds and yellows and dim whites. The street bustles with cars. He could probably hear the crosswalk signals chirping their approval to walk to the pedestrians on the move. People were moving while he lay there motionless. Dying. Trying to breathe. The crowd from inside the bar yelled and stomped and sang out like they do five nights a week. The last noises he heard were the joys of life, while he lay there dying – while they danced to life.
but then, who wants to be old, anyway?