3.03.2025

New home for a month. Rundown studio in a condemned building. Have seen no rats. Can't speak to whether they've seen me. Kitchen equipped for half a person. Wet towels in the closet. No soap, no evidence that anyone has given any real thought to what it might be like to spend a night here or thirty.

I can fix this, he said to the empty room.

Sheets on the couch to cover the stains that look like someone made a point to bleed, a little bit, on each cushion.

I refuse to be depressed by this or interpret it as evidence of my failures.

Two, or three, I guess, things I won’t complain about: there’s an actual coffee maker here albeit a shitty one and not just one but two toasters in case I need to make a hell of a lot of toast in a hurry.

I can work with this.

Internet is laggy, devices act like you’re waking up them from a nap. Semi-regular hums and drips. Feels like a place where some real addict drama could go down. Haven’t heard anyone yell but the guy upstairs sure likes to sing.