If it keeps on raining the levee's gonna break...
Water pours from a gutter furred with moss. The water pours down onto a flat roof making such a noise that it's hard to believe that it isn't drilling down through the felt to fill the room below.
Things don't feel good in that room. The man who sleeps there has to deal with his own guilt. Try as they might, his friends can't do it for him.
In a drier time, moss had been pulled from the gutter, ripped from the felt and tossed to the gravel below. One piece, about the size of a beard, had become entangled in the spokes of a bicycle wheel.
Moss in the wheel of an old bike that hangs about the place, neglected like an abandoned dog, teeth and chain rusting in the rain. Once this bike chewed up roads, a computer clipped to the handlebars measuring speeds and miles. A mirror, now cracked, reflected the world left behind.
The race against time was lost.
There were storms last night. Gales wrenched the doors of the outhouses open.
The hairdresser says she couldn't sleep. The storm kept her awake. The salon starts to warm up now as the electric heater gets to work. She chatters on. The client wears black trousers that gather a harvest of hair.
The mirror on the wall might as well have not been there.