The air feels remotely cold around here. Door keeps slamming. Noise. The stench. The adolescent screech of a wanton acolyte nearby. Cold. Crestfallen. What is here? Where is here?
I start to cringe. Hunger pangs. Nicotine pangs. Alcohol pangs. I start to crave attention. Can you not look at me that way when you talk to me? Shut up. Stop breathing down my neck. Dread. I want to feel tranquility. I want to stare at the sky. It is grey. It is raining. I like the smell. It refreshes me. A mordid, uplifting sense of ecstasy. The air still feels chilly. And it chokes. What do you want from me? Fuck mediocrity. Fuck mainstream ideals and notions. Fuck the nuclear stereo-types. Fuck complexity. Fuck the irony of the situation. I claw at the edge. I helplessly wave an out-stretched arm in your view.

Then I start to wake.

I hear you.

And I no longer understand what you are saying.