Everyone here's an insomniac, he realized aloud, blundering hollow-eyed through the hall, spilling a spot of coffee on a rolled-back shirt sleeve.
Each cell he passed spat human noise. Music and television. It was four in the Monday morning. The building housed eighty apartments on four floors; he wasn't sure if even one tenant slept.
Stress was consuming him, the rent he didn't have was due in two days. Wandering helped. Provided distractions.
Lighting a smoke, he decided where to land in his restless caffeine haze: the courtyard. The picnic table sitting atop a concrete form, appearing too perfect in the dying moon's light.
A domestic fight fumed in one of the balconies at his back. He inhaled as one, two, a six pack of beer bottles fell and smashed to shards, and didn't pay it mind.
The world is beautiful, he wanted to tell these disputants, to tell the world itself. But stinks, he thought, stopping on a metal grate in the concrete which sent a gassy assault to his senses.
He leaned back on the table.
He shed the cigarette in disgust, only to be flash-charred by the ensuing flames.
He died thinking of the nails the table would leave behind. How they'd be found in rusting glory, eventually. It would be after a fresh rain. The insomniacs would witness his end, stop their bickering, their media absorption, and watch him die.