I guess it could go both ways; either he was a very pessimistic person, or the world just wasn’t angry enough.
Anyone with any sense would know it was the former as his anger fell out of the bottoms of his feet and it seeped through the sidewalk cracks where the ground accepted it, flowers grew from it.
They would have almost been beautiful if there weren’t large blocks of cement crushing them.

Walls met to form an ‘L’ an ankle deep puddle revealed itself to the night by yellowing light.
Walking past he imagined himself stooped over the dirty glass water.
Looking at his self in a different world with a gun to the back of his skull.
His backwards self’s wet voice rippled through the puddle,
“This isn’t real, nothing is. It’s just light reflecting off your eyelids.
I could shoot out the lights now and neither of us would be here.”
With that he turned the pistol to himself and pulled the trigger.
The puddle caught his body without so much as a splash.
He felt nothing as he watched his reflections yellow blood sink back into the mirrored yellow light.

By the time he awoke from this his feet had carried him past the walls that met to form an ‘L’.
Standing in front of a house with no lights on that didn’t exist, and a silver car that didn’t exist.
And a three wheeled bike that didn’t exist because the lights were off so none of it existed.
But across the street that half existed from the house that wasn’t there was a line of four houses with the lights on.
In the window of the second house on the left stood a woman in a brown bath robe with a NY Islanders baseball cap perched crookedly on her head.
A cigarette puffed at the corner of her lips, her feet rubbed at the fading shag carpet.
And large circular tears made their way down her dirty face leaving clean streaks from her eyes to her chin, emphasizing her sadness.
There were three lamps behind the woman in a triangular pattern, their light cast a shadow onto the front lawn.

From outside, the pessimistic man stared at the shadow of the depressed woman as she stared at him through ocean eyes.
He studied the depressed womans shadow as smaller shadows began to fall off her wrists and then her stomach and finally her throat.
He looked up when the depressed womans shadow eventually crumpled but she was gone and the carpet was no longer faded and the lights went out so none of it was real.
He turned away.

There were busy streets that were very much alive and large buildings whose life flickered through thick windows hundreds of feet up in the air.
There were also cars with people inside who were alive but didn’t look alive then they were gone and their existences ceased.
3,467 sidewalk blocks.
3,467 almost beautiful flowers crushed under 3,467 large blocks of cement.
He heard a cry from above and a body smashed against the road, and became not a body but still existed in so much light.
And the light hid no detail of the man/woman/child who had decided to end their life 40 stories above the ground.
People crowded around. One woman, covered in the man/woman/child’s blood, convulsed awkwardly on the ground beside three strange men with leather shoes and briefcases.
The pessimistic man studied the curious crowd, the convulsing woman, and the strange men.
He heard them say, “What a mess.” “What a mess!” “What a waste….” “Did anyone hear what they yelled? Before they hit?”
The pessimistic man turned away as they squabbled.
“Don’t turn off the lights.” he echoed.
But no one listened to him as he slipped into an alley where he briefly stopped existing.

At one point there was eventually a lake with a center made of milky gold which emanated light to the distant shores.
It gave off a dead light which confused the pessimistic man.
“Could light die?”
“If the one thing in the world which defines our existence fully could at one point fade away before it reaches us, why aren’t we all terrified?”
There were ducks on the sandy shores and a forest beyond them.
Far away and right beside him the lulling lap of the tide teased him, lying; ‘everything is beautiful.’
He fell for a second, appreciating the soft view of the lake and the moon and the stars and the ducks.
quack-four in a row they emerged from the water, golden silk slid from their oily feathers leaving them dirty and dishevelled.
Ducks don’t care about light or night.
“Maybe it’s the potential to go through life without being defined by anything but yourself,”
“Maybe falling 40 stories off a building is enough,”
“Maybe you might get stuck in a life on a dark street in a small house with ugly carpets,”
“Maybe you’re a duck.”
Clouds began moving to conceal the moon.
“Maybe life isn’t about hiding from death, but fighting to live.”
“Maybe sometimes you have to go to the light.”
“Maybe sometimes you have to create it.”
The moon passed beneath the clouds, the lake disappeared, the ducks vanished, the forest slept.
Under a blanket of black the pessimistic mans down cast eyes lift in an invisible expression of happiness that bathed the lake in a sheet of milky gold which emanated from shore to shore.