He sat, head pressed up against the glass, watching the lights begin to stream as they passed into his peripheral. Silence fogged the air between them. He motioned to say something, hiding meaning between the lines. The words never made it from his lips. He closed his eyes. Focused his thoughts. Let out a breath as the symphony drew in the lull into its grasp. Six o’clock in the morning, feeling the drag of the day beginning to pull, he throws on the least dirty clothing he has collected on the floor. Seven inches of rain fell from the roof last night, contained to a single tin bucket he inherited from his grandmother. A pail that once rinsed off his chicken-poxed body as a…