He returned to the hovel he had created himself the morning before, bed sheets upturned and pillows astray. His alarm clock blinked 12:02 with an electric blue. The watch on his wrist was the only sound he could hear, and yet somewhere, in the recesses of his vast imagination, he could hear a voice repeating the events of the day...
Long after dawn, though well before afternoon, he found himself greeting a good friend at the train station, a monument of stone and glass. He blended superbly into a small crowd following his friend to a nearby regular haunt. They both ordered coffees and sat contemplating the lives they were currently in.
He realised that he had lost sight of what he'd wanted to become, and he realised that he needed to do something about it. Encouraged by his friend, he sat looking for inspiration, a hard thing to find in the confines of a coffee cup. Stirring the mess of brown and cream he thought long and hard of what he had done. There was no going back, just moving on forward. You cannot relive the past.
Upon completion of his daily tasks, he found his friend again, parked with the ladies, and awaiting his arrival. He, having dropped his belongings, was later than he expected. Though into the wet surroundings he strode, knowing exactly where they would be. He was greeted and they were on their way.
The roadways looked different in the rain. The vehicle itself was a haven of warmth, a comfort for some. As they arrived at their theatrical destination, they were diverted to the nearest car park, for the amusement of parking attendants. This was a minor annoyance for them, however, they arrived on time and in need of refreshments. The queues were only five or ten minutes long, and they managed to avoid the annoyance of television adverts before their cinema experience.
Glasses were worn in the dark corner they found ourselves in, and the feature began: The Great Gatsby. The musical accompaniments were superb though a lot shorter than expected, and the whole cinematography of the work was wonderfully handled. Having not read the source material, he found it a pity that it was a romance doomed to fail, and tragedies of the heart have a tendency to be the most painful tragedies of all. Though, in a way, as his friend did say, it is a story of unrequited love. Daisy loved and loves Gatsby and Tom, Tom loves and loved Myrtle and Daisy, Gatsby loves Daisy and always has, and Nick loves Gatsby.
The feature ended, drawing on the fragments of screenplay it had left and tied them together in an attempt to complete a narrative and more music played. The four ventured out into the dry night air and discussed their thoughts, staring ever into the sky and at the wonders of the Bay. The glowing colours of red, green, and purple, the dry patches of concrete, the dozen closed eateries, before their feet found the car again. He could have stayed out and explored the quiet Bay a little longer, though his bed was calling and he had had a long day.