withdrawal

it has become another world, the kitchen: fluorescent lights, bread and turkey slices, cold coffee.

coffee: so cold it could never have been warm.

i live on the other side of the room: blinded windows, desk, computer. this is my habitat. i create my own ecosystem in the carpet with crumbs of blueberry cake.

that i baked. days ago, in the kitchen.

how could i have ventured into that jungle of cupboards and molded metal? the fridge and microwave, instruments of death. the dishwasher, a sadist. and the stove... well. cold as the coffee, and angry.

how had i managed to use these things? i have to protect myself from them. it is essential.

i sleep in the office chair or beneath the desk. the crumbs have been assimilated into the carpet, and yet manage to find their way into my nose and eyes and mouth... but it's fine, it's good, because i need food somehow.

i have not eaten in a long time. i don't think i remember how. inhalation has become my preferred method -- my only method -- of ingestion.

i couldn't handle anything larger than crumbs.

when i wake up i sit in the chair and watch my cold cup of coffee. it doesn't evaporate. i've been waiting for it to. it's immobile, and i never want to touch the cup because then i know the liquid will move. even though it looks like it won't.

it'll leave a ring around the cup, and ruin everything.

it might even spill.

and then i'd have to go into the kitchen.