A grey sky, and the sounds of people living around me, melting their way through this day. And my body plastered to the same fabric of this couch. My syndicated emotions spiraling like a drain in a shower collecting all the dirt and things unfit for my skin. And I focus on these emotions. Serrating. Liplocked. Composing in me like a grand opera show meant for a boisterous voice, some of them echoes of the boy I was, with the smile, and the twinkle my grandma always saw in my eyes; others less recognizable, dulled, like trying to see through a thick fog; the more recent ones like a total eclipse of my early twenties, a big black out. Peculiar, right, that I should forget those nights with lovely girls with lovely names like Sapphire and Cassidy and those beds that creaked more than I would have liked. Quiet again, the worst kind of quiet. You know this quiet- brittle, flimsy to the touch. A pin is all I need to pop the quietness. Maybe the water from the explosion will shower my face and bring me back to optimism. A solid cleansing. Surreal. Salvador Dali jealous of my dripping frame.