it's the cold heat of a bedroom that gets you. the bare *** of a ******* a poor beach; the sound of running water. the day is july 8th and i'm hungover in bed at 5pm. i tried to call her—no answer. it's always the wrong girls that appear on my couch, next to my shower curtains, lying in my covers. i think the sink is broken, but i haven't dare tried to fix it. maybe i should take out the trash—it's been piling up for weeks.