It doesn't have to make sense.

Nothing is quite as it should be, but everything is in its place by being displaced. Belonging is only, really, a question of being unwanted. There is nothing new here; instead, here is simply a constant state of disrepair and forgetting. It is the last refuge of resignation, tarnished and sagging beneath the weight of a sinking sky and dilapidated buildings. It is newspaper clippings with old dates and yellowed edges, creased Polaroid photos faded by more than time. Everything is in its place by its simple state of absence. There is not so much a sunrise or sunset, a marked beginning or a definite ending to any day, every day. No, there is just the overcast, just the snow like ash falling on rooftops and alleys and streetlights that cast a pale yellow ring for the shadows to stand in. There is just a silence, really, and a mutual invisibility. The same streets, the same steps, the same walls and the same view of streets and steps and walls. The same sagging sky with its unfamiliar stars and all its distance between here and anywhere else. The same bar stool full of absence, gathering dust like ash like snow. The same song. The same past. The same day, every day.