ific.

There's a nail above the kitchen door frame, I hadn't seen it before and suddenly it was there. Empty white wall, nail. It seemed to be lacking a clock hanging from it. I suppose in the back of my conscious mind, that's what a home looks like.

This apartment is no such thing.

Outside the kitchen window, snow flakes flurried upwards, sideways, great big flakes like magnified dandruff against the black black night, and all I could thing was how much it felt like I was looking into the swirl of a Dyson vacuum. You know, the kind with a big plastic container where everything flies around like a tornado. I felt like I was sitting inside an aquarium, looking out.

This empty apartment. These echoing rooms and half-eaten makeshift excuses for meals, this twisted unmade bed and sad air. This is no home.

But if it isn't beat, I don't know what is.