Roving Reverie

T he bathroom was putrid, rancid, rank—practically by definition. The tiles were chipped; chiselled into walls were the names of long-dead teens who thought they would rule the world, or at least this miserable pocket of it. The lighting didn’t help. Yellowing bulbs fizzed and lit the room unevenly; their shaky visages flickered in and out. Nary a small soul could manage to do their business in…