Portrait of the Artist as a Prisoner, Part 2

It was supposed to have been a better night - a night in a hotel room a special treat. No longer able to bear the burdens of menial labor, Janitor Man evolved into a creature of the streets, doing odd jobs for money then breaking away once more. It galled him to spend his hard earned cash on a fleeting room, but then he thought: What am I saving it for? Retirement? But it seems the comfort of an abode only gave free reign to dreams of torment, ghosts of the past rising up anew. How frustrating to have gambled his money on rest and received anguish instead. Into his imagination he retreated, trying to convince himself this bed was a bed he could keep. That the world was not out to kill him. All life simply a bad dream. He remembered how the fatally crippled boy in "Mask" would retreat into thoughts of his dream vacation when a seizure attacked. But coping is not curing. Janitor Man heard a sound in the hallway. Naked, he ran to the peephole to look out. Housekeepers had started their rounds. One was young and cute, her bare calves showing. He started stroking himself, barely suppressing the urge to run into the hallway. When he released, he sprayed the carpet as a cat marking its territory. He moaned to the bed and crawled into a ball of shame. This life never to be shared. "Nothing left to do but die."