5.9

I'm alone at the court again, sitting among the dregs and the riffraff, myself a trash man who belongs in a trash pile. Fancy people from upstairs walk past. They belong here, drawing in the flotsam like a vortex. They walk past us, unseeing these five or six who wait for their time, attention, help. This is their world, and we, like fish from a lake, founder in the deeper waters.
Every form is an insult. Every wait is hell. I hate this place.