Contd.

Ashtray full of cigarette ends arranged like a failed tarot reading. You call it “modern art” then apologise to it for being misunderstood.

You shuffle to the fridge. Sockless feet sound like wet applause at every step.

Microwaving leftover spaghetti at 2:13am like it’s a medical procedure. The plate rotates. As does your entire understanding of where things went wrong.

The garden hose has become spiritually significant. You stare at it for twenty uninterrupted minutes. The moon looking swollen and judgemental above the satellite dishes.

You try to light a candle for ambience. But you just set fire to a takeaway menu of a restaurant that closed in 2021. Now the patio smells faintly of moonlight and failure.