dirty name

He sits in the back seat of a taxi. The rain envelops the car -- a drowsy air nervously floating near the window. The cab is filled with the emptiness left by previous passengers.

Quietly and with delicate attention, he studies his hands. Thinks of what these hands are capable of and, in fact, have already done. He stares at his first finger -- decides to make use of it. He writes his name on the fog. Calls this space his own for the time being.

A movie-like quality invades his consciousness. For a number of moments measured in streets passed, he feels like he's a stranger in his own life and certainly in the world.

The lights blink green in succession. A glow filters down, cascading like snow and sinking into the skin of the taxi driver. Sliding down the fog, puddling on the street, slinking around buildings.

He wishes he could be beautiful like the lights in the fog. But he knows he is the dirty name on the window -- already fading as the water cries down the glass.