The building had 60 stories and he was 60 years old Still cleaning it from bottom to top for the past 35 years one thing remained unchanged as time passed the coldness Every surface he’d ever touch would be as cold as the glass of a window in the winter And the people who worked in the building were pale and cold as vampires He forgot how it was to be saluted or how it was to salute and get a reply No one talked to the janitor No one knew his name No one cared There were no souls in this isolated monolith that stood in the center overlooking other monoliths Hell is cold and monotonous and plays constant factory noises or keyboard noises and exudes smoke Even the plants were made of plastic and their flowers and leaves had to be sprayed with alcohol and wiped with a rag Real plants wouldn’t accept such treatment They would punish you with their death and that should be enough But not for those pale vampires The only thing alive was him, the janitor who imagined jazz music playing in his mind as he scrubbed the tiles and one mushroom that grew behind one of the toilets in the women’s bathroom from a used pad He left it there for days It was his little secret, his little friend in this world of soulless beings It was life sprouting against impossible odds Life in hell It was something to look up to every day Something to kneel before and say hello to and sing jazz to and even pat gently with the finger He promised himself that the day that mushroom died he would retire So far it was still alive Still sprouting spores that he inhaled and tasted with his tongue after rubbing it gently with his finger Living beings stick together regardless of species Just like the dead do
the living with the living, the dead with the dead
Daydreaming as a profession 