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Description
The only release I have been able to find this night was within the pattering of the water leaking through my ceiling and landing on the bare boards of my floor, as gentle showers caressed my windowpane.  Shouting can be heard from the neighbors house, heirlooms crashing against the walls, words being said which can never be retaken, damage being done that can never be healed.  The shadows of flying and falling dishes alike trickle across the wall of my room, dancing me to sleep.  The simple rhythm of the rolling thunder washes away the endless arguments being played for the third time this week.

The toils of my day have brought me from the exuberance of spring to my nightly reality of weariness.  My feet stick out over the edges of my pallet, the lightning showing the worn black boots still attached to my feet, in flashing glimpses.  My jacket rustles as I turn, trying to find a rut that will quiet the pulsing contortions in my withered back.  Tomorrow maybe.  Tomorrow I think, perhaps I will find the energy to get out of my cloths before I collapse once more.

As the first gentle rays of spring sun wash away the brittle frigidness of the winter, and all memories there of, so too does the morning of each day wash away all that has or could have been from the night before, but the idleness that follows the exuberance of an avid moment or an intriguing thought is nearly polar to their grandeur; hopelessly featureless and without end, until it reaches the cleansing beams of the new day, leaving all else in a past which bears no further importance.

"JACK.  JAAAACK!  Get up, its Sunday."

Nothing at this point but fresh coffee clutched between my wretched talons could stop the impending groan.  Saturday's bout with consciousness reared its ugly head as I teetered onto my aching feet looking for a partially presentable shirt.  The only thing not heaped in a dirty pile was a black and gray dress shirt laying on the floor in its own beam of morning light, one corner of it dampened from the leaking roof.

"JACK, you coming or what?"

"YEAH, yeah...for some reason...I'LL BE RIGHT DOWN."

Grabbing a stale looking Stetson sitting upon the pile of clothes I set across the boards and down the aged stairs as they creak their dejected moans.  Each plank is a different length, a different width.  An entire year and I still stagger down the misshapen walkway to its counterpart warped portal every morning.  Stepping over the last of the degenerate strips I push open the grudgingly stubborn door.

"We only got like eight minutes, hurry up."
"I'm comin, get in the car.  Did you make any coffee?"
"Coffee? Bah, you don't need that stuff, and we don't have time for it anyway.  And I didn't make any, and we're out."
"Hmmph," I frown grumpily, "I get Sunday off and I don't even get coffee to be awake for it."

During storms the trash on the street gets washed down the hill to the nicer part of the neighborhood where the houses are all two levels and have garages, leaving our end of the street with a deceitful coat of untainted morning dew.  I'm barely awake, but I soak up the false tranquility as the morning continues in a blur.  Me and Jessie pass through one of many all too familiar unpaved roads before we enter the city-funded streets once more.  My attention is waning already as the fatigue takes over.  Five hours of sleep, and now it is 8:27, three minutes before morning worship begins.  The backfire of the exhaust pipe stirs me from my reverie of sleep deprived complacency that I get a lot in the mornings before my life sinks in.

I park in my traditional spot, between a Lexus and a Mercedes at the end of the parking lot, in front of the church bus.  I always think to myself as I try to decide if I should bother locking it, if it makes those two cars look better, or just makes my '89 Mercury look worse.  I leave it unlocked, and head inside, among people wearing suits and Sunday clothes, attempting to pay no mind to my scarred boots and battered bluejeans and the wrinkled shirt riding atop them.

The pastor blends into the rest of the congregation, typical black pants, over-shirt and dress shoes.  None of which can hide the scarlet silk shirt beneath his collar, or the glinting of one of his gold rings.

"Open your hymn books to page 23, 'I will not want', and let us start the morning"

I upset a stack of pamphlets while pulling the hymnbook out.  A few advertising flyers for the church, and some get help papers.  Putting them back into the pew in front of me made a surprising amount of noise as the people around me began to sing, so I tossed them on the bench for the moment.  My fingers crack one by one as I turn to the appropriate page, and stand to sing.  We sang two or three songs, I remain half asleep and lose count.  Before long, the pastor motioned for us to sit as he began his sermon.  I sat back, forgetting the pamphlets I had set there.  I set them on the floor next to my feet.

After about seven minutes or so I found that keeping myself focused on the priest was going to give all control to my compulsion to sleep right there.  With this thought, I let my mind drift.  I don't really know why I still go to church on my days off.  I suppose one latches onto what habits available to find comfort.  Church is just something that has always been there.  I think about it most Sunday mornings, but never come to an answer.  The bright colours of a flier caught my eye, and I picked the top few up.  "Have you found Jesus in your life?" I thumbed through it quickly, but found nothing interesting.  "Church breakfast, brunch, and luncheon Saturday, 23rd" I let it drop to the ground amongst the others.  "Have you lost hope?" I grunted knowingly, gaining the attention of Jessie and a woman in front of me.  Both seemed to take it as an agreement to what ever the pastor had been saying.  I took out the carpenter's pencil that I always kept with me, and without thinking scribbled across the front of the pamphlet: It is not that I have given up hope, it is just that I know not what hope is.  My own words startled me, jolting my attention back to the pastor.  I put the last of the papers back into the pew in front of me, somehow missing the one I had written on, sitting next to me.

At 9:34 the pastor lead a final prayer and wished us well in our week.  Jessie and I stood up and shuffled out as the gentle flow of the choir walked us to the door.  As I started the car, covering more than one Sunday suit with exhaust, I could see Jessie eying me from the passenger seat.  She saw this mood of mine every Sunday after church.  It was the only thing that made her kind eyes waver.  I dropped her off back home and headed off to pay a bill and get my work schedule for the following week.

Description
The only release I have been able to find this night was within the pattering of the water leaking through my ceiling and landing on the bare boards of my floor, as gentle showers caressed my windowpane.  Shouting can be heard from the neighbors house, heirlooms crashing against the walls, words being said which can never be retaken, damage being done that can never be healed.  The shadows of flying and falling dishes alike trickle across the wall of my room, dancing me to sleep.  The simple rhythm of the rolling thunder washes away the endless arguments being played for the third time this week.

The toils of my day have brought me from the exuberance of spring to my nightly reality of weariness.  My feet stick out over the edges of my pallet, the lightning showing the worn black boots still attached to my feet, in flashing glimpses.  My jacket rustles as I turn, trying to find a rut that will quiet the pulsing contortions in my withered back.  Tomorrow maybe.  Tomorrow I think, perhaps I will find the energy to get out of my cloths before I collapse once more.

As the first gentle rays of spring sun wash away the brittle frigidness of the winter, and all memories there of, so too does the morning of each day wash away all that has or could have been from the night before, but the idleness that follows the exuberance of an avid moment or an intriguing thought is nearly polar to their grandeur; hopelessly featureless and without end, until it reaches the cleansing beams of the new day, leaving all else in a past which bears no further importance.

"JACK.  JAAAACK!  Get up, its Sunday."

Nothing at this point but fresh coffee clutched between my wretched talons could stop the impending groan.  Saturday's bout with consciousness reared its ugly head as I teetered onto my aching feet looking for a partially presentable shirt.  The only thing not heaped in a dirty pile was a black and gray dress shirt laying on the floor in its own beam of morning light, one corner of it dampened from the leaking roof.

"JACK, you coming or what?"

"YEAH, yeah...for some reason...I'LL BE RIGHT DOWN."

Grabbing a stale looking Stetson sitting upon the pile of clothes I set across the boards and down the aged stairs as they creak their dejected moans.  Each plank is a different length, a different width.  An entire year and I still stagger down the misshapen walkway to its counterpart warped portal every morning.  Stepping over the last of the degenerate strips I push open the grudgingly stubborn door.

"We only got like eight minutes, hurry up."
"I'm comin, get in the car.  Did you make any coffee?"
"Coffee? Bah, you don't need that stuff, and we don't have time for it anyway.  And I didn't make any, and we're out."
"Hmmph," I frown grumpily, "I get Sunday off and I don't even get coffee to be awake for it."

During storms the trash on the street gets washed down the hill to the nicer part of the neighborhood where the houses are all two levels and have garages, leaving our end of the street with a deceitful coat of untainted morning dew.  I'm barely awake, but I soak up the false tranquility as the morning continues in a blur.  Me and Jessie pass through one of many all too familiar unpaved roads before we enter the city-funded streets once more.  My attention is waning already as the fatigue takes over.  Five hours of sleep, and now it is 8:27, three minutes before morning worship begins.  The backfire of the exhaust pipe stirs me from my reverie of sleep deprived complacency that I get a lot in the mornings before my life sinks in.

I park in my traditional spot, between a Lexus and a Mercedes at the end of the parking lot, in front of the church bus.  I always think to myself as I try to decide if I should bother locking it, if it makes those two cars look better, or just makes my '89 Mercury look worse.  I leave it unlocked, and head inside, among people wearing suits and Sunday clothes, attempting to pay no mind to my scarred boots and battered bluejeans and the wrinkled shirt riding atop them.

The pastor blends into the rest of the congregation, typical black pants, over-shirt and dress shoes.  None of which can hide the scarlet silk shirt beneath his collar, or the glinting of one of his gold rings.

"Open your hymn books to page 23, 'I will not want', and let us start the morning"

I upset a stack of pamphlets while pulling the hymnbook out.  A few advertising flyers for the church, and some get help papers.  Putting them back into the pew in front of me made a surprising amount of noise as the people around me began to sing, so I tossed them on the bench for the moment.  My fingers crack one by one as I turn to the appropriate page, and stand to sing.  We sang two or three songs, I remain half asleep and lose count.  Before long, the pastor motioned for us to sit as he began his sermon.  I sat back, forgetting the pamphlets I had set there.  I set them on the floor next to my feet.

After about seven minutes or so I found that keeping myself focused on the priest was going to give all control to my compulsion to sleep right there.  With this thought, I let my mind drift.  I don't really know why I still go to church on my days off.  I suppose one latches onto what habits available to find comfort.  Church is just something that has always been there.  I think about it most Sunday mornings, but never come to an answer.  The bright colours of a flier caught my eye, and I picked the top few up.  "Have you found Jesus in your life?" I thumbed through it quickly, but found nothing interesting.  "Church breakfast, brunch, and luncheon Saturday, 23rd" I let it drop to the ground amongst the others.  "Have you lost hope?" I grunted knowingly, gaining the attention of Jessie and a woman in front of me.  Both seemed to take it as an agreement to what ever the pastor had been saying.  I took out the carpenter's pencil that I always kept with me, and without thinking scribbled across the front of the pamphlet: It is not that I have given up hope, it is just that I know not what hope is.  My own words startled me, jolting my attention back to the pastor.  I put the last of the papers back into the pew in front of me, somehow missing the one I had written on, sitting next to me.

At 9:34 the pastor lead a final prayer and wished us well in our week.  Jessie and I stood up and shuffled out as the gentle flow of the choir walked us to the door.  As I started the car, covering more than one Sunday suit with exhaust, I could see Jessie eying me from the passenger seat.  She saw this mood of mine every Sunday after church.  It was the only thing that made her kind eyes waver.  I dropped her off back home and headed off to pay a bill and get my work schedule for the following week.