"That there antennae.. that there antennae.."

The words drag themselves across her cerebral cortex and create symphonies amidst the flow of traffic and the flutter of a birds' wings near her ear. That one phrase repeats itself so strongly in her ears and she digs eagerly at a potential clod of earwax to rid herself of context. The church looms; outside stands a man choking on vomit and painting a sidewalk with his sins – he's a day too early to save his soul, it's only Saturday. She walks slow and craves a distraction.

The sex shops are closing. Nobody knows how to love themselves anymore – everybody is seeking solace in the sweet fuck of a stranger. Masturbation is sinful. We are taught to not love ourselves as once before – but that we are never good enough. Never pretty, never skinny, never petite and well-spoken, only abrasive and afraid. Our self-esteem has been dragged through the dirt and the idea of re-inventing our trains of thought stay in one place at the station. On this trip abandon, we will go nowhere, only to our local bars to find those to provide sustenance of esteem for a night or two.

The sweetest taboo in life is watching somebody experience their revelation and witness their return to a familiar salvation. The homeless man coughs and hacks and produces a gob of lung butter which he spits on the sidewalk in the centre of his pile of vomit. He stares at the sky for an answer. She pretends not to watch him as she lights a cigarette. The crows continue to circle like vultures and she feels so lonely and desperate she considers asking this creature of a man to put her out of her misery and fuck her gently.

"That there antennae.." he whispers under his breath. The church bells ring and the crows scatter away, painting a murder in the sky. The man retrieves from his inside jacket pocket, a gun, and in a single swift motion, and a mass of grey goop mixed with blood coincides with his other bodily fluids on the sidewalk. Whatever the thoughts he had to drive him to this are now nothing but a pulpy mess. Nobody screams. Nobody even breathes.

Save for her. She inhales the last drag of her cigarette as the crows slowly flock back to their antennae that adorn the roof top of the church. She flicks the ashes into his remains.

One foot in front of the other. The crows turn their heads to stare at her as she walks away. The bells ring out a final tune. She resolves to take her pills tomorrow.