Hello forum! Back again for another story with a different twist to it. Do enjoy and drop a comment while you are at it!
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The threat of getting bruised, beaten, and battered. By God it didn't even matter. I was living it. What 'it' was, however, was another story. A story nobody bothered to write down. Who could blame them? With the hustle and bustle of this God forsaken world they were so busy living 'it' that they couldn't even take a second to explain 'it', let alone a minute, an hour, or day for that matter. Wrapped up in the torn and smelly blanket of their own pleasures. The cold chill of reality crept in through the tears but the warmth and comfort still remained. I was trying to find that something to curl up under you see. The Psycho, the Jet, the chems: they only gave me the coziness of a newspaper sleeping bag. They'd keep blowing away and sure enough I'd be running after them. Once you run out of breath the little security you got isn't worth the chase anymore. I was last and least at this point in time.

To call me a degenerate was an understatement. God had branded me like Cain, humiliated and forced to scraqe a living off the recesses of the remains of remains of man. He had me roll my bones around this 'New York City'. Nothing new about it, only the uncertainties that plagued every acre of this great country. My only protection was the little brain I had, crammed in between my two eyes. Two eyes that could see the contorted steel weapons clenched tightly to their bearer's backs. Two eyes that could see the buildings slowly and surely crumble atop their residents. Two eyes that could see mankind as it was. There was nothing kind about man. Nobody knew the trouble I had seen. But rest assured they would hear it somehow.

I crept into a dark and decrepit crumble of concrete. Rustling amongst the rubble a case appeared before me. Its red leather was calling for my blistered hand's. My hands couldn't resist as they autonomously arranged the case before my feet. What could be inside? What would fate have in store for me? Questions are all I could muster, I needed answers. BAM, a worn out gold trumpet or something. At least that's what they called the looks of it. Was it calling or moaning to me? I couldn't make the noise but it was doing a number to me (maybe the drugs?). Was something like a long lost lover. I had to put my lips to it, caress it, make it my own once again. To say I knew how to play was a white lie. Sounds came out but of what musical theory it followed was unknown. Sitting amongst that rubble I blew into this thing for a long while. I blew my heart into that trumpet. Felt my soul reverberate inside the room. What a theraqeutic activity this was. Of course I needed time to acquaint myself with this lovely piece of work but I was quite fine with that. One could say I had found my blanket alright. Now was just a matter of keeping warm...

"With the hustle and bustle of this God forsaken world they were so busy living 'it' that they couldn't even take a day to explain 'it', let alone an hour, a minute, or second."

You should reverse that to "they couldn't even take a second to explain "it", let alone a minute, hour, or day."

The progression usually shows a small increment and then increasingly large increments. The idea is to say they couldn't give it a second's thought, let alone the time it actually needs to be properly considered.

Interesting premise though, and i like the blanket warmth anology, good stuff.

Very enjoyable indeed. If we see what i think is a just post war character, it'll be interesting.

It has promise for some great story-telling, I'm interested.