Counting Bricks

The streets are filled with the zombies of humanity.
San Francisco. 3:24 am. Waiting.
The streetcar will never come. The bus always refuse to run.
Life here is never in one's favor.
3:26 am. A homeless man prospects a trade. No dice.
3:27 am. He realizes his follies and inches away in his bulky brown coat.
3:28 am. I can still smell him in the moist air of the freshly hosed down streets.
3:29 am. My eyes are being forced open by the sheer frost of the cold.
3:30 am. I'm still awake?
3:37 am. Cop after cop rolls down Market Street.
3:39 am. Another man stands at the stop. Just as cold. But with worse balance. Should I fear him?
3:42 am. No. He's gone. Should I have?
3:43 am. This is no time for thinking, my brain is dead.
3:45 am. A roller bladder in short-shorts? Who is this guy rocking out to his iPod in the middle of Market Street?
3:48 am. I can see it. But it feels so far away. This is the first part of my journey, I still have the long walk of solemnization in time.
3:50 am. $1.50 to the bus. I'm alone. But I'll be home soon.
4:00 am. Walk up, no sleeping yet. That's saved for another day.
4:12 am. What? Did I miss my stop? I need to stay awake. Damn this lulling bus.
4:18 am. West Portal. My gateway to my residence.
4:19 am. The inner city was a warmer place.
4:20 am. Lets begin part two.