If you look to the East of a morning, you can see the sun rise slowly from behind the trees, silhouetting everything for miles around. If you look to the West at night, you can see it set over a perfect azure ocean. It seems to go on forever, that ocean, and the horizon slightly curves at the edges, but never gets vertical. And you can only see it curve in the corner of your eye. Never chase the curve, it’ll only disappear; if you look too closely, it’s flat as a table-top. Even if there’s a storm out there it looks completely calm. The sun reflects brilliantly, and for a split second there’s perfect symmetry. Then it’s gone.

I live my life for those few seconds each morning and night. All of the hours in-between are wasted on the petty chores that daily life entails - eating, walking, talking, going to work, getting paid, going home, LIVING. It’s all pointless when you compare it to a sunset. I live my life here. It’s not much of a home, but a home is what you make of it, and I make of it what I can. That’s my theory and it suits me just fine. When you live where I do, you try your best to survive.

After sunrise, (and I always wake up in time to watch it. If I miss it, the day’s already dead for me.) I go to work. It’s a sleazy downtown diner, and while it may not be the best job in the universe, it pays well enough, and I wouldn’t change it for the world. I’d never be able to get a job anywhere else. The place has a routine - same customers, same orders, same time, every day of the year. It becomes second nature. “Mornin’, Mister Harris. Double cheese bee and fries comin’ right up!” Occasionally, we get the odd tourist in search of a cheap, substantial meal, but half the time they took a wrong turn, either that or runaway kids looking for favours. Even the variety gets monotonous…

I’ve been in this city all my life. Never left it. Never had to. Never needed to, or wanted to. Even if I did, I wouldn’t know where to go. Everything I need is right here. I eat at work - it’s not healthy but it tastes good and it’s on commission - and my paycheques go straight to the bank. I never see them and I don’t want to. I don’t want the temptation. In fact, I’m getting quite a stash, or so I’m told. I’m saving up, but there’s nothing I need.

I finish work at ten every night (eight on Sundays) and begin the journey home. If I’m lucky in the winter I can get back just to see the Sun melt into the water. After leaving the diner, I walk on autopilot down the alley. Turn right onto Main Street. A ten minute walk past the huge office and apartment blocks, then left down my own alley. Every night, there’s a different hobo sitting on a box, and I’m an easy target for them. I guess they think I’ll sympathise, looking like I do, and they’re right - I always help them out. Usually give them directions to the diner, too, for good measure, tell them to say “Marni sent you” to get a free meal. The boss doesn’t know yet… he’d never fire me though.

It’s pointless getting nice clothes around here, they’d only get wrecked. So I live in khakis, boots, a tee-shirt and a ratty leather jacket that belonged to my brother. Served me well, that jacket.

Making my way to my ‘penthouse’, if you want to call it that, is the best part. I have to climb on top of a trash skip that’s been welded shut for who knows how many years, still filled with garbage. Then, clamber up onto the broken fire-escape. I use that to walk up two floors until it gets rusty, then I have to use the window sills to get to the top, bracing against the opposite wall. It only takes a few minutes.

My ‘penthouse’ - the roof of the building, sheltered on the North side by the other building, and surprising warm under my makeshift, yet sturdy, canopy. I sleep on a mattress, under a blanket of stars. My savings could probably buy me somewhere better, but I love it here.

Like I said, you get a great view…

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