He turned the key. Might be over for good this time. Pushing the door inward on creaky hinges he foresaw cinema without projected critiques, or deep incredulous sighs. There would be pasta el dente without debate, drain catchers left askew, three week ice cream eaten in spoonfuls, flowers left to die and curl into crusted pod stalks. Turning to his left his eye caught the writing on the wall. A sharpie on the floor. An empty wallet. With glue and a stack of dailies he newspapered the room in times roman, occasional helvetica. On speaker phone a mattress was ordered.
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