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This work could have adult content. If you continue, you have agreed that you are willing to see such content.
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Summary
Every bitter story starts out with the smoke of a cigarette, something significant in the way the ash falls and dissolves in the puddles of urine and rainwater dripping from the rooftops. It’s a scene straight out of a movie, a body bent over hurling the night away, a hand on another drunkard’s back, hair pulled back. He thinks the city’s lineage operates on some level like this. Each arc of the story features a starry-eyed hopeful that disregards how easily the fast-paced grit of a city can eat you up alive. There’s no such things as happy endings, not the kind of happy that appears in the story books, it’s more of an almost than an absolute. You can almost be happy if you have enough money, but that won’t remove the scars that tie you here. You can almost be happy if someone loves you, but that won’t stop them from disappointing you. Perhaps he’s something of a pessimist, or maybe he’s just seen too much.