Apartment

Every word becomes a room. Each new room can still become a memory; but right here, right now - all I can see are the reflections of all that has passed me by.

I look because I have to. I look because the clock will tick. All these walls painted the same color. All these carpets with the vacuum lines perfectly matched. It's like a cough drop -- the hint of candy melting into the bitters of medicine. You know it's good for you. You know it's what you need. It's just that you wish there was something about it you could enjoy, something that you could honestly look forward to.

Instead you find yourself confused. Instead you grow yourself into the belief that all salvations must taste hard, that growth can only come from pain.

And like a child pushing away the green on his plate,
you start to avoid the things that you need the most.

Just at this moment Alice felt a very curious sensation, which puzzled her a good deal until she made out what it was: she was beginning to grow larger again. She thought at first she would get up and leave the court; but on second thoughts she decided to remain where she was as long as there was room for her.

"I wish you wouldn't squeeze so," said the Dormouse, who was sitting next to her. "I can hardly breathe."
"I can't help it," said Alice very meekly: "I'm growing."
"You've no right to grow here," said the Dormouse.
"Don't talk nonsense," said Alice more boldly:

            "You know you're growing too."

[Listening to: Hendrix, "Burning of the Midnight Lamp"]