An empty early morning city. On a summer day holiday, all the buildings sit alone. The streets and spaces that fill with passersby during the day and night are themselves sleeping in this morning. Much like any other slumberer, the physical activity of a silent city is minimal. But does a city dream still, and what would a city a dream about?

I wake before the alarm sounds. My head begins throbbing before my feet hit the floor; my blood runs with alcohol traces from the previous evening. My entire body creaks as it moves off the bed, aches rushing up from my feet to the thighs and the stomach and the head. Was it even worth it? It passed another evening away. And that is one evening less to worry about in the larger picture. I am going to his apartment again, and only because he called to ask if I might. I had told myself that last time would be the last time. But I recall telling myself that before. Ex-lovers should return phone numbers when emotions run cold

The bed is still warm, I should just crawl back into the blanket, fall back into some dizzy nothing. Would he even notice if I did not turn up? He would; he sounded so desperate last night. I should have paid more attention to his call, but the alcohol had visited first and manners commanded that my first guest had precedence. It offered a softer option. I should feel fine if I continue walking. The streets are empty: I could walk with my eyes shut. Finally, a city to myself; a city bowing towards a king with no subjects.

Down in the metro the city is even quieter. Even the subway trains take a holiday. Empty straps hang above empty seats during what should be the morning commute. Perhaps if I get in the train car I will feel fine. I can simply sink into the seat and into myself for the five stops. My head hits against the window of the train and my stomach drops lower into my body at each lurch of the train.

The square is covered in burnt out firecrackers. Scraps of red casing and powder exploded for independence. I suppose that was my excuse for the state of being I find myself in this morning. And with one vague phone conversation, he calls me back in the morning. Perhaps if I get to his apartment, I would feel fine. I can sit in a chair, close my eyes, and nod when he expects a nod. He was never there when I needed him, and I would tear down the town to help him. I am a bit short on words this morning. And words have not meant much lately anyway.

Crossing the street I am nearly hit by an automobile. One in the entire city this morning and it nearly hits me. But if it had knocked me down, I would have had an excuse to just stop moving. My joints are creaking and each step rams swords up into my knees. His apartment is around the corner. I could continue walking, burning off the alcohol in my blood with movement. He can sort himself out in time; he just wants me around to feel better about himself. Any doorstop is looking comfortable to lay down in. If I were to use a stoop for a pillow, would I dream of the city?