momoight

     He pushes the door open. It swings open at the slightest brush; the old, rotting hinges doing nothing to hold it closed. He steps inside, looking at his feet, and pushes the door closed behind him with his foot. It stops, then slowly swings back open a little. He doesn’t notice; he doesn’t care. His landlord never bothered to fix it, and he doesn’t have the necessary tools to do so. He slowly walks across the dirty, stinking carpet to his small bed at the other side of the room. As he passes a rickety old chair, he drops his work jacket onto it, letting it crumple in a heap. He’s almost glad to have the filthy thing o