It is not the blue pills. It is not the last messy apartment complete with broken dishwasher, cigarette-scored couch and rapidly approaching end-of-lease. It is not the pink pills, the endless polaroids, the calloused feet, crumpled pay-stubs and negative bank account. It is not the drawer full of journals, the little round white pills for nervous days, it is not the mailbox full of circulars and bills. It is you in a chair in the next apartment. It is the CD rack and the bookshelves built and the TV turned off and the radio quiet or static and it is the realization that you could stay in this chair for days for weeks for the rest of your life you could die in this chair before anyone could ever find you again.

¶ 4:12 PM