I face a cluttered room, embraced in darkness. I know it is cluttered in spite of the literal vision, for I have the memory of stepping on an overflowing ashtray and cursing the fucker (myself) who left it there.
I, embraced in my Wal-Mart comforter; he, facing the ceiling, diligent in his slumber. A sudden shift in his dream and he turns to stare at the wall opposite my naked body, taking the rollover-priced cover with him. The coldness sweeps in, quick and unyielding. The fan, its original purpose to create white noise, to ward off distracting sounds that occur through the night, creates a blanket of chill that moves me to rise from my fetal position. It is a rebirth of the most cynical kind; the wine has moved through my body more quickly than originally planned, and I move towards the bathroom, than towards the kitchen to ward off the inevitable hangover with potato chips and water. O, what has brought me here, to this overpriced complex, to this over-hyped city, to this current situation?
one year ago today: nothing. two years ago today: nothin. three years ago today: nothin.