he lay awake, unable to move, unable to see.

"dam, not again"...
john had blacked out some point the night before, and was just now coming to. slowly, very slowly, he sat up in his bed, not really a bed though, but a sorry excuse for a matress on the floor. empty cans and a bag of food lay strewn among the dirty clothes. his eyes were coming back now, the blood moving around his torn body.

in the kitchen, still bleary eyed, he stumbeled around in the 'fridge, looking for some caffine. it's too hot for coffee. a half open can of pepsi gave him his drug of the hour.

crossing the bridge always hurts in the moring, but today, it was like therapy, massaging the legs as they span around and around. John arched his back as he rode up the last little rise off the bridge, looping around and coasting back under towards soho, well, my soho at least.

he was first in, and it was still early. the door was never locked anyway. only crackheads and poor people live here, and they rob the rich across the river.