How quickly our shape has become "not in". How wheezy we grow, lungs tied up as if with butcher's twine. How the rain seems seems to ooze up as well as pour down.
How we pace empty rooms finding soft spots in the hardwood. How we want to at once set all our possessions alight but also fashion them into cloaks so we can have them with us always.
How the previous tenants have left a sixer of Berry Weiss behind for us. How it tastes like Dimetapp but still we drink it, flat on the floor, smiling up at sagging plaster overhead.