A frozen window and some street that abuts the train playground. A playground that, in the summer months, exists as some kind of memorial to a time when kids actually left the confines of their homes to play in some kind of poorly constructed neighborhood park. In the winter the place looks far more inviting and much less like a place one could contract some kind of disease by accidentally stepping on an abandoned hypodermic needle. Silently it just lives there. At the end of all of the presidents. Just south of the rail yard. Just north of the strangest portion of the oldest section of the city. The train playground.
To the east is the car lot where the human excrement lies quietly between the parked cars. The same car lot where the salespeople look just as one would expect them to.
To the south are houses. Lots of houses and parked cars and lights on in second story windows. People. Living out their lives in their low wage jobs making ends meet when they can. Middle America. Low-income. Realness. Solitude. Isolation. Here it is.
And in here it’s real quiet and the dog is lying on the bed and breathing loudly and another stick is about to get burned. There is routine here for the first time in ages. There is calm and collectedness. There is peace and comfort. There is here and here is there and everything is exactly as it should be.