I know how the final moments of my life are going to be spent. I will be sitting on a second hand couch, one I got from some yard sale after talking the woman down from thirty bucks to twenty. The couch is itchy and fills up half the three hundred a month attic I’m renting out. I’ll have some music playing in the background something slow and hazy, maybe a mix CD I got from a friend whose name has escaped me. I’ll get up only once or twice that whole night just to rub out the scratches on that CD, I’ll spit on it wipe it on my pants put it on repeat and sit back down. Its three in the morning, and much like tonight, I am just sitting trying to think of something, anything else.  The only light that falls on my clasped hands comes from the open refrigerator door; I’ve been too busy to shut it, anyway there isn’t anything in there to be spoiled. The rent is due, bills need to be paid and I’m trying not to think of all that. What I’ve chosen to fixate on is that light and how it changes with my swaying head; a spot light for my angst. As I’m swaying and thinking and not I’ll drift off. I’ve had too much to drink and am so very tired and I’ll wonder who this couch is going to make itch next.