You can't help but feel a swell of pride looking at the silhouette of your building against the slow-setting sun. It wasn't well when you first met. You like to think you've made it well again. As you make your long trek back home, the sun sets and the bugs start chirping. You kick your boots off at the door, and take a moment to enjoy the faint light coming through the sliding door. There's something comforting in the inky darkness, especially once your eyes adjust. You consider flipping some of your wireds' switches to wake them up, but instead decide to head to bed early. You're more tired than usual. Of course, you have to piss (it's been a long while) but the bathroom's door sticks in it's frame. You press your weight against it for a moment, but you know it usually doesn't work if it's been left all day. The violent daily temperature swings make the wood all contract and expand. You grab the crowbar leaned in the corner crook of the wall's conjoinment, then pry the door open. It pops satisfyingly. Sat on the toilet, relieved, you notice in the mirror the dust caked on your face, then the dark, door shaped glow behind the tile etching. You wash your hands and your face and your arms and your legs and your and your ass, tugging off your clothes and leaving them in a heap. You curl into bed and pull your laptop close. . zzz . {{3}}