Rotation.
The day starts with the fan. That fan. That damned fan. Every morning, as the sun rises to taunt you and the city births a new track of noise, that fan is there. A reminder that you are still here. That a brighter life has not emerged from the ether overnight. You are here, in this rotting stomach of an apartment, in this mad cow of a town. I apologize for such imagery, the mind gets dark. The day gets dark. Storm clouds are forming above. A tree falls. A siren erupts. Lightning erupts. Open the eye on the soft paisley of the peeling wallpaper. Pinned haphazardly to the wall are a few photographs from days gone by. The waterfall near my childhood home, my brother Sinclair posing in front of his auto, me looking out over the Appalachian Mountains. Better times than today. Sit up. Look to the nightstand and see an ember still burning. You could have died lat night, how blind are you? Pretty blind, actually, I am rather blind. Put on the eyepatch. Quit smoking. Well, grab the butt and tak...