The hushed tones, the ceiling cracks, the crumpled sheets lull him in his silent whispers of pain and small prayers for the night. He gropes on walls to feel his fingers, arms, the answers to why the other side of the bed remains empty? Awake. Eyes wide open. Wondering–what would he do if he had no fears? Blinding light from the florescent merrily caresses a room of movements; bed undone, clothes scattered in a spectrum of: red, yellow, green, and books some read, unread: red, yellow, green, and shoes waiting for the owner to fit himself in. The electric fan drones monotonously its attempt to drown the Eraserheads in full-blast–poking, shaking, grinding, scattering an air of bold distraction; its thickness cleaves with the gleam of the florescent as they, together, clamor a whimper before a sole soul’s stale spirit–the spirit he can’t force himself to fit in.