Entering the sala, I'm greeted by a flaking leather couch. I rest my head on it's arm. Been told to replace the eyesore. To leave it for the landfill. The thought picked at me, but one night, when resting upon its form I heard its frame rattle. I remembered that the car rattles. The washer machine rattles. This apartment rattles. But, my pockets do not rattle. So I lied there staring out the window.