[ Old, Peeling, cracking paint, like curled pages from some exhausted book. Bulging leaves of crisp paint overturned, stricken with the chemical change of age. How about a fluorescent tubes struggle to light up some meek hovel; Oh, its tired yellow rays. Or, Fleeting follicles in the creases of ceaseless sun through venetian blinds.Theres the boiler room cacophony (thats just so soothing) with its network of archaic pipes leading to what seems like nowhere. How its valves shiver and shake with daily pressure. Upon the facade of a dead factory its dull multi-shaded windows glow, they're still standing, full of holes; they take up shelter with wooden boards. Shh, the radiator just rattled awake, and with its steady groan fills the air with heat. City lamps filtered through foggy windows. From another room, the quick hues of blue from the television set, paint walls. An old motorcycle sputtering away with a brown paper package twined to its seat, its bows bouncing with each bump. Crude scrawls on the interior of a match book that suppose letters and numbers; complacent, never in memory. Press your head under the surface of quiet bath water, notice the sound there, the warm inviting pressure; the thick cut of your heartbeat. Excerpts of headlights through a wall of fog. ]