It's a slightly faded memory clouded by shimmering hope, but I can still remember the motions.

The most prominent sound was the creaking, whether of bones or of the bed springs. I would toss and turn all night, always emotionless and restless.
There was always a soft hissing when it was quiet, but when there was sound it was of soft guitars strumming. A voice that's cracked but clear resounds and reminds of all the turmoil.

The view itself was different. It wasn't what I had expected, nothing too dull or dreary. Instead all the colors were brighter, sharper. Except a certain halo that surrounded my proximity that seemed like a color vacuum.

The smell was dominated by the familiar scent of stale cigarettes, never fresh cigarette smoke. Sometimes it was the lingering aroma of a week old perfume still nestled into the fabric of my pillow. It's as if it was still there to help me remember that time never stopped.

These are the distinctive memories, it's how I am reminded of a time when I felt lonely.