You stay in your room. Not eating, not reading, hardly moving. You watch the basin, The Bookcase, your knees, your eyes in the cracked mirror, The cup, the light switch. You listen to street sounds. To the dripping faucet on the landing. To the noises your neighbours makes, clearing his throat, having a coughing fit, his kettle whistling. You follow on the ceiling the winding line of a thin crack. A fly's pointless wanderings, The perhaps calculable progression of shadows. You are 25 years old. You have twenty-nine teeth. Thirteen shirts and eight socks, five hundred dollars a month to survive on, a couple of books you no longer read, a few records you no longer listen to. You don't want to remember anything else.