His middle name is despair, the rest is Joe Lunchbucket. Dark clouds hover over him everywhere, whispering him to never go astray. Silver linings elude these clouds, like hope eluding him. His decrepit apartment’s smeared ceiling knows him better than his emotionally absent mother and runaway father combined.
Stumbling mailman with misaddressed Christmas card cut his noose loose last winter. Dark clouds stayed the spring, hovering over him. Summer’s here; he won’t go to the beach. He cuts the power-line, latches windows, and contemplates the noose. It beckons. It’s neither winter, nor Christmas. He bolts the door, just to be sure.