I see a room with yellow walls and brown curtains, a small table and an old couch.

In the middle, a man, his chin down, the skin around his neck bunched up, purple, brown, red and yellow.

Somewhere there are people who love him, but not here, not in this room. Tomorrow everybody will ask why, but for now he is just there in that room.

Some days the man looks vaguely familiar, some days I know who he is, and some days I see myself swaying in that room waiting to be found.