Standing in the middle of the road, he was certainly going to either get run over or he was certainly going to cause a traffic accident. But this was a great vantage point to take a photo. A long horn passed him by.

“Why the fuck are you in the middle of the road!” the man shouted swerving out of the way.

That’s a good question. Why was he in the middle of the road? He was trying to convince himself that he was doing something important. But he was starting to consider this was a dangerous habit of his. Another car swerve out of the way and another stopped inches away from his leg.

The rabbit behind the steering wheel lifted up a paw. 

“What the hell!” the rabbit shouted, “Get the fuck out of the road.”

“I would if I saw meaning in my own existence,” he responded, “Now your car is in the way of my shot. Working on a gallery.”

The rabbit swerved around him and he just continued looking down white painted lines. Taking photo after photo of a street with oncoming cars in the distance. If none of these photos turned out good he’d be disappointed, but then again he didn’t have much fucks to give even if the photos were crap and someone would tell him on his Instagram that they were not marketable.

Who’s the shit head who even decides that? Consumers? Consumers can barely decide whether they want a poptart for breakfast or cereal. How could they be trusted to know what was marketable? It wasn’t like he was doing this for his health. Clearly if he’s standing  in the middle of the road with little fear that he’s going to get run over.

It’s a weird place to be. On one hand you enjoy your current existence and like it to stay where it is. On another hand you’re about ready to give up and want to throw yourself in front of a moving vehicle, jump from a building, shoot yourself in the head, constantly. A state in which both being alive is the greatest feeling ever, but the worse feeling ever and you wished you no longer existed. Where death and life do a constant dance in your head.

No normal person should constantly weight life and death this much in their head. He felt like he was obsessed with his own rotting corpse sometimes. Putting his camera back into its case with ease, he was sure he was being robbed by now. In the back of his mind he always picture his Depression as some shadowy asshole who robs him of his most desirable thoughts.

Oh you were actually have a decent day. You know what I am going to take that from you and let you hold onto all of these other negative thoughts.

He’d probably upload his photos onto his computer and edit them. It sounded like a good idea. There were places he wanted to be. To do. Go to the cafe.[i] No you’re just wasting your money and that sounds like a lot of effort[/i]. Go to the comic bookstore. [i]But then you actually have to engage another individual with words and that sounds like a lot of work. [/i]

He just couldn’t muster the effort to convince himself to do anything, but drag his feet back towards the [i]Salty Dog Apartments[/i]. 

[@Syn] [@Arty Fox]  [@knifeman]

Where a group of individuals was beginning to develop in the lobby. Why? What was the occasion? Should he engage them? He’s never really talked to them. Beside knowing one of them was Devon. 

Maybe he could sneak on by? His heart was racing and he was getting that weird feeling you get when you feel something bad is going to happen even though you know nothing will. A sense of doom just washed over him. 

“Mor-ning,” he mumbled to the group, “Quite the congregation. Didn’t know the[i] Salty Apartments [/i]was starting an evangelical group.”

Did that sound lame? Would anyone laugh? Or would they just blow him off?