I work in a basement full of natural light and florescent flickering. I listen to music and sit in a room made of glass and wood. The people who work behind this room don't think I'm an actual employee; they know I'm a simple step up from an intern. A temp-worker. I am a transient. This is not my real home. I haven't earned it. So when I try and be nice or helpful or familiar with them, they wonder who this guy with the stupid mustache is and why he's talking to them and why doesn't he have access to most of the doors here?

I have a song stuck in my head that I sing a lot.
not a girl in this city reminds me of you not a girl in this city reminds me of you not a girl in this city reminds me

Life is a loud series of overtones. Loud and blank-faced and I'm stared down, into my bed, every day every night every time I get the courage to get up go out and experience the air and dust on my face and neck. So much to say, so much to squeeze out of my swan-neck but all I do is moan in my sleep for the way this world spins. Like a tilt-a-whirl with a broken door. I always put my bed against the wall, that way I decrease my chances of falling out every night.