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    It’s 7:32 when he realizes something is wrong.

    He never used to be this punctual. A year ago, if someone told him he’d be used to waking up at seven in the morning on the dot every day, he would have scoffed in their face. He’s an artist. Mornings are the archenemy of inspiration, and some days he hates the sun so much he thinks he’d have a fist fight with it if he had the energy.

    But now, he has a routine that not even the sun’s foul touch could deter. Seven A.M., his alarm goes off. He lies in bed just long enough to contemplate death in the blessed, gloomy silence of his room, makes a measured shuffle to the bathroom for hygiene and a piss, then with a quick sniff-check to make sure his sweatshirt’s not too rank for public consumption, he’s up and ready, shoving his feet into his sneakers before he can hear the impatient rat-tat of a samurai sword on his front door.

    This morning, though, no knock comes.

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    06 Apr 2022