And the day goes on.

The living room was cluttered with boxes from storage, none of which have found their homes sorted throughout the house. It was also cluttered with boxes from the house, none of which have found their new homes to the Good Will. Most of the window was blocked out by the open cabinet and the shades were closed, a few traces of light coming through and casting an orange haze over the couch. The author sat in the only empty spot available on the couch, the rest of it covered by unfolded laundry. The brandy had run dry and sobriety was setting back in as sunlight began to crawl its way out. The last week had not happened. He remembered none of it, he had spent his time off work visiting the years before and getting lost. He had just woken up and walked into the living room to take in the emptiness. He never opened direct deposit at his work because he knew that he'd never have reason nor motivation to leave his house less than he already did, and today was the day he got paid. After five days off work his skin was rough, slicked in oil that occasionally irritated his eyes. His hair clung to itself. He didn't smell terrible given the circumstances, but mostly because he's been dehydrated enough that he couldn't sweat. When he walked into the bathroom, he weighed himself. He dropped 12 pounds since he weighed himself last week. He turned on the shower and turned it up to a boiling purge and sat down in the tub for several minutes.

He probably should've taken his clothes off first.

His body began to regenerate. His hair dried out and frayed, his skin softened while the redness left, at least on his face. His body was covered in all manner of bumps and ingrown hairs and random bleeding holes from degradation, but clothes hid that at least. His toothbrush was stiff and rigid from disuse, and when he put toothpaste on it and put it into his mouth, an intense burning occurred. Every brush sent tremors through his teeth, upset his gums. He was spitting up more blood than foam as he brushed, his gums bright, angry and irritated. As he reassembled himself, he had a few clean articles of clothing left, made easier by wearing the same clothes for several days so he didn't have to do laundry frequently. He breathed in, and then out as he made his way to the door. He begrudgingly re-entered the world of the living as he stepped outside his apartment, vaguely presentable and letting nobody in to see what happened as he was in there. His isolated headphones hid himself from any social interaction while he was out, giving him an accessible exit from talking to anybody. He walked past vaguely familiar faces he couldn't bother to remember or speak to, and made his way to the office at his work, for a brief moment removing himself from his bubble in public.

“Hi.” the author said.
“Hello, Lucas.” his manager said. “How are you doing?”

“Yes.” His obtuse response was seen as playful. He just didn't want to talk. He grabbed his check and then excused himself.

“See you next week.” his manager said.

“Alright.” he responded. Every time he said that he didn't know if he was lying or not. He usually wasn't. There were days where he wish he was. He did his best to make it back home quickly, as nothing made him feel nearly as alone as being out in public. The dark was unrelenting and began to close in again. The time absent from work didn't feel long enough to fight it off; it never usually did. When he returned back home, the world came to a standstill again. Time was still lodged in an earlier day when he entered. He navigated through the empty living room filled with garbage back into his room and the stillness began to deafen him again. He was stuck in the awkward limbo of being hungry but too weak to make food, so he crawled into bed. He didn't know what time it was but the sun was still up. The dark began to settle in and the only thing that was going to wake him up was work. Work was good because he could leave the apartment and time moved outside it, and nothing in the apartment mattered to anybody else but him. So he decided to forget the weekend, too.