::::::::::A short unfinished draft of something:::::::::::::::

Two smackies drawl onto the bus, the first calling back to the second, who seems distracted by something in the dinstance, to move her arse.
“…It’s like half… the time you don’t wanna get on the buses and the… other half you don’t wanna get awf…”
As the vehicle starts off with a jolt a full can of cheap cider comes tumbling head over heels from the back seat, folled a laconic moment later by one of the junkies, moving like an awkward puppet with the bus’s forward motion.
“awww… Isht all dented…”
Their words come as if bubbling up from some deep black mud, eaten away, partially decayed by the periless endless journey.
A man gets on and takes a seat, his words crashing together as he talks to himself.
The junkies might not be junkies. They may slurr their words under the influence of other substances, but something in their mannerisms whispers heroin.
The bus stops in a nother village and they alight. They bicker back and forth – loud and brash as dueling cymbols cut with the whine of a broken telephone encased in clay and thrown into a cerment mixer. They were born in the nothing village but they live in the drowning town where the water comes up past your lips and you can’t hear each other over the silence.
They figure it’s better to drown than be nothing.
They live in the 4th floor of a block of flats. They used to live on the 6th but the building has been slowly sinking for months now. They don’t care. They’re just glad they didn’t originally live on the 2nd floor. The flat consists of one room in which they try and dry their lungs in front of a one bar eletric heater and cook up junk in a tiny tin kettle meant for a dolls house.
Unless they don’t.
Today they are bored. Bored and sick of drowning. Today ythey want to be nothing. Maybe visit family. They tumble into a small cramped newsagents and, squeezing between shelves of washing up liquid and metal polish, make their way to the counter at the back which has ocassionally been know to serve hot food. They emerge back onto the street clutching burgerts encased in strofoam that will still be around long after they have turned to dust. They feel the wind scurry under their skin as it blows past them and they take shelter between the two pillars of the community centre entrance way and fill their mouths with greasy hot meat, trying to innoculate themselves against the chill, but in the end give up. The only escape from the cold lies inside, where they sway unsteadily for a second and forget to wipe their feet.
The building was a gift to the miners who lived in the village back when people still dug things out of the ground to breathe life into themselves. Now the miners were gone, snuffed into obselesence by bent beureaucracy and a criminally insane matriarch. Now the hall belonged to the villagers. They would drift towards it like moths – seeking warmth and the distant memories of what community actually meant. The snooker table was over 100 years old. It held the village in place like a tombstone. For the wantering meaningless and numb youth it was a lighthouse in the dusty void. It was towards it that the smackhead couple gravitated.
It wasn’t untill they’d racked up the balls that the figure of the caretaker appeared in the doorway, dark rinks for eyes that made it difficult to place his age, his faraway voice asking for a coin.
“awwwwnawwwchange. Can we just have one game?”
The caretaker, realising that the effort to get them to pay was beyond his means, just nodded. Idle words took flight in laconic drifts of enquiry stretched out elastic and loose as the temporary nothings probed orgin stories and the caretaker, each word rolled into shape as carefully as musical notation, took stock of the local melodies. The caretaker was a transient agent, dropped from place to place by the glacier whims of local authorities to act as a banage for the vagaries of higher mammalian entities; incapacitated processes and the people who operated within them. In this instance the longtime caretaker’s reproductive system had gone sideways and ruptured several important organs along the way.
The transient caretaker was an accomplished traveller of alien sociological landscapes – feeling out threads of meaning and assembling workable models from fragments of gossip and scraps of paperwork. He haunted the rooms of the community centre and played hide and seek with the echoes, chasing dust along the floors in the mean time, corning it with deft brush stroke and scooping it up before it had a chance to escape. Emptying one bin into another, and then another, until the heap of garbage looked like the expelled stomach contents of a vagrant nest of russian dolls.