You walk into the place and all at once you realize it isn't your home. It never had been and it never could be. Despite this you still hang your coat on the same hanger, drop your shoes in the same place. All without thinking, you have done it so many times you fear your ghost might follow these same patterns after your death. You sit. You think. You are aware that you want to be neither sitting nor thinking.

You pour yourself some bourbon. You like the way it smells more than the way it tastes and you're not sure why. It doesn't matter to you anymore. One glass or five, it doesn't matter. You wonder why your shades are always drawn. They've been drawn for so long that dust has collected on them. You wonder why you've never at least dusted them. You wonder.

You have forgotten who you are. It is important, you know, to forget, but you can't quite remember why. You know that whoever you are, and wherever you are, that you're happy. But somewhere, beyond the bourbon, you know that this is not quite wholly true. The room spins and you feel that you are no longer sitting and you are no longer thinking. You simply are. And what are you? You're happy. Happy for the moment, which is more than enough.

Some nights you are vengeful. Some nights you fill the glass with whiskey. You know full well that you do not like the smell of whiskey and like the taste even less. When you drink whiskey you do not forget who you are, you just wish desperately to be someone else. You become manic. You sweat. You curse. You scream and howl and all the while, beyond the whiskey, you know this is what you want. You want to be punished because you do not know how to be forgiven.

You want to watch the sunset. The oranges and the yellows and the golds. To sit and think and watch the dark come. You cannot, you feel profane. You wait, you wait. You want to look at the stars, to gaze upon the moon. Their melancholy so much more profound and beautiful than yours. You cannot, you feel dirty.

You look at people instead. You look at all kinds of people. You look at them though glasses and contacts; out of the corner of your eye and the back of your head. You look at big people and small people. Small people interest you more. The people that fade away in a crowd and in a moment disappear as if they've never been. You follow these people with your eyes. You make it a game. How long can you look at them before you too forget about them?

Once you saw a thief. I man reaching into another man's pocket and taking his valuables. You stopped looking then. You didn't care about a big man pretending to be small. You didn't raise your voice, you didn't need to. You felt no bond with the wronged man. You feel no bond with any man. You feel not quite alone, but lonely.

In the morning you find your shoes where they always have been, and you find that your coat fits just as it always has. You go walking. You would go running if you could feel the desire to go anywhere. You would even settle for the desire to be running away from something. You feel nothing and you think you should be scared that you like it that way.

You like the rain. You like the way it smells and the way it tastes. You like the way it soaks into you. They way it refuses to leave you lonely. You want to smile but you cannot. You think as you walk, and you don't mind the thinking so much as long as you're walking.

You're happy, you think. But if you were sad you don't think you'd really know the difference.