The tram hummed along wet streets of Melbourne, tires slicing through puddles that mirrored the city's scattered lights. It was around 9:30 PM… I was going for my night job—what was my job? Dishwasher? Sweeper? Clerk? Or Night Manager in a cheap motel! But rain, I tell you, streaked the windows in rivers, blending reds, yellows, and blues into a fluid painting slower than the world outside. My heart raced—restless as always. Inside, the air smelled faintly of wet coats and old coffee, touched by the metallic breath of the heater. My fingers twitched. My head leaned against glass. Vibration climbed my bones like a whispered pulse. I checked my wallet in my back pocket—still there.

Outside, streetlights stretched halos into rain; the city dissolved, impressionist, half-asleep. Neon sputtered above shops: noodles, pills, laundry. I smoked outside that shop once. I met my wife near that statue. I called my girlfriend first from that pond. Took her to that tall hotel later. Memory flared like neon—then dimmed. I once rented In Bruges in that store. Summer laughter, last night's breathing, yesterday's friction—drifting. I murmured with myself. Where had all my breaths gone! I cannot swim yet I waited all day for her to rise from tides. Waiting—absurd.

Faces blurred. A driver, an old woman carved from winter, a drunk collapsing into himself. A man reading, eyes dancing between print and rain. A woman humming, lips like prayer. A child gripping a sleeve as if holding the world's edge. All lives brushed mine like moth wings—near, never touching.

To float here wasn't water. Movement without urgency—arrival without destination. Track like scripture. Tram like liturgy. Time elastic, loose as tired skin. My fingers tapped knees, echoing wiper blades—rhythm of the suspended. A quiet mercy: to exist without performance.

I was carried, not traveling. Rain whispered persistence. To pause yet remain alive. A silent mantra: I am here though nothing demands me. Existence—no task, no goal—just the hum. Just breath. A private orbit around self.

When I stepped off, neon clung to shoes. Asphalt mirrored my ghost. Dumpling steam hit first. Sweat. Wages. I walked slow, rhythm tucked inside ribs. Drifting, pausing, being—not doing. I died that night in some subtle sense. Alone. I never woke after that—not the same version who boarded.