Slowly the world around me starts to register again. I stretch out my ever-aching joints and turn my head away from the direction of the window. My bones are heavy but imagining your criticism helps me to finally get up. My head still sounds like someone played every channel on a radio all at once but quieter. I float up to my bedroom like a ghost, devoid of life. Predictably, the 3 small flights feel like I am climbing a mountain. As I climb I try to manufacture a life where I am happy. Maybe I’ll write down an outline of that life later. Someone deserves to enjoy it.