BoJack And His Wife

One.

Dry. Awake. Dirty and grim.

The day was polluted. The headspace of being forced back into perception of reality met the gradual understanding of the senses around you. The black feeling that came along with the shock of being in the kind of circumstances you were for this long were starting to come back. It lasted only for a moment, replacing the stagance of detachment that came along with never fully processing your situation due to the bittersweet benefit of the protection of vague sense of denial.

Your hand grasped onto the ten dollar bill you had crumpled into your pocket before you properly opened your eyes. The dirt that was caked on your cheek complimented the shakiness of your hand as you felt yourself give a hitch of a breath; one that came from whatever you had inhaled lying flat on behind the grit of the sidewalk earlier that day. The mundanity of the spot you had found yourself in was one settlement practiced as exactly as the routine you had long since become used to in order to survive.

You had seen the grim of the sidewalk and the splat of the dirt that sat on the back wall countless times previously on the same empty days, where the only pattern of meeting the fogginess of your detached eyes was the constant ongoing aimlessness that came along of the complex feeling of the analysis of an unwell mind and a body without a home.

Your eyes opened as you felt the burning of your cheek meet against the side of the hard pattern of the sidewalk. Your lips cracked opened, and you could feel the physical dryness there in your throat as you felt yourself coming back from the disorientation that came along from the deep detachment of lack of consciousness, and the abrupt wake that came along with all the small minute challenges that you weren't even aware you were always fighting until you had such a natural bleak break from them temporarily.

Your palms began to ease onto the grim of the sidewalk as your skin pressed against it momentarily, your chin raising up, and for the countless time in your life did you feel yourself easing into the animalistic rhythm of the chaos of existence as the back of your headspace fell into a black acceptance of the ache of your body and the usual weary patterns of your mind that came to the pinnacle of just how exhausted they truly were for that minute moment they were forced to come from the bleak backdrop of sleep.

You were aware of the aching of your throat as you turned your head up, and with your body curling in on itself with the tattered dress you had been wearing the past few weeks; the tailor that you met with the kind eyes who had come to guess your story if only from the pathetic tattered ways you carried yourself with your hands gripped against the dirtiness of your skin and the pathetic nothing of your constant timid energy that caused her to have sympathy for her donation to you; a kindness that could only be met in small minute real life intimate scenarios such as that one that you knew was rare, even in that scenario.

Your lips pressed together, the bottom of your lip raising up onto the top of your other one in that undignified and delusional way that came from the disorientation that you had from the constant strain of your mental and physical streatching of your body. Your eyes fluttered up into a blink as you gave a breath, this time the tone sounding especially scratched against your throat, causing you to wince as you gave a heaved breath; the air of Los Angeles has been especially dry lately, and even more with a smog that was dressing and pollutining into the ease of the already defaulted grey clouded sky that normally sat above the buildings.

Your hands were cracked and cacked with dirt as you turned your head down, your body curling forward as you gave another dry heave while your body shook; that feeling of being inhuman wasn't one that had become foreign to you at this point in your life where being inhuman and being treated as such from casual passagers didn't lessen their loathing in looking down at the dirty cake of trembling lost people that the majority who had never fallen into the cracks were even capable of processing. Your neck turned up as your lips cracked and pressed against one another again as your kneeled your body back onto your thighs, your other palm coming to grip onto the white tatter of your dress. The tailor swan who had made the rags for you had been one of someone who gave you that special extra time to make you one of something special;