With 8 in mind, Shelly shuffles as quickly as her dumb mind will allow across the cold floor, picking up dirt and those damn floating hairs on the soles of her feet, to the searing heat of the shower.
Sleeps. In bed, in the shower, in the 4, during the 7, in the 4 again. Only to repeat 1.
Terrifyingly silent men with loud erratic movements and eyes that stare. Sometimes they smell like 7, sometimes they come in suits and ties, and it is their small tense gestures when confronted with 6 which betray their danger.
Space which alternately floats and jolts, heaves and hos, filled in the mornings with swarms of 6 and in the late darkness with only one or two 3.
Vagrants alike, wanderers of the earth. All one big happy fucking family. Of course he will still be there when Shelly gets home, merged with his crusty sheets, rolling in the green filth of his 4. She heats up his slop and leaves it at the door. Too exhausted to do anything else, she 2.
Ungodly school children shouting and coughing and stumbling around roughly falling onto each other and other members of the victim-audience in the 4.
Piss. Drink and excrement. A life cycle structurally familiar to Shelly’s, but not something she broadcasts. No, her life is more than that—at least she has a job. These 5 surely don’t. No-one would employ them. Not Shelly.
They changed the cast of actors on the 4 the evening prior, even the driver was different—unusual, and slightly unsettling.