and i want to paint it

Some are twiddling thumbs, some are asleep with the lights on, some are not what they were.

The world, he tells himself as he readies to get back home, is made of very different people. Stay long enough and you find enough to like and dislike in all of them.

Some though, it is hard to dislike.

Wearily as he makes his way out of the building to the bus stop, walking like a small child, he thinks about all the snakes and ladders which led him here. It must be all an amazing coincidence. How funny must it be, he thinks, if despite all the science and study about the human condition, everything comes down to coincidence.

Truth is pure coincidence, unintended, irrational and therefore obtuse.

I'm a philosopher now, is it? and he gets off the bus, into his flat, into the kitchen, into his bedroom and good night, good luck.