Their head feels light, heavy, and painful. They weigh their options, pay rent or sleep this off, as they trudge to the bathroom. It's a bitter and cold walk, hardwood spits the chill of whatever time it is back up into their bare feet. It's tooth grindingly long. There isn't any light but it's still too bright for them, their eye is burning. They wish they had some carpeting, or a rug, something to make this slightly more tolerable than what it is. Needless to say they keep going.
There's some form of catharsis in it, the walk. It's the realization they are in a horrendous mood, something unfixable and unknowable even to themselves. The day is already lost and rotten. How shitty. And yet they still need to go to work, because they can't couch surf again and there's this part of being an adult that makes you kind of have to be responsible for yourself. Growing old in itself is a rotten thing is it not? The way your bones ache, the lines, gray hair, everything about it. Terrible. They want to be young again, or, younger again. A kid, some 10 year old running around in the backyard waiting to go to school. Time catches up in a way originally unaccounted for, so here they are. And time was on their side to make the train, if they can hurry the hell up, that is.
They get up and walk to the bathroom.