he sits in the room, tiles and broken things, warm light, sweat in his hair. but he rises, he pulls his sleeves, tightly over knuckles, silently with his teeth. his thoughts are hazy, just his feet pressed against the floor, the warmth in that chill, he can almost see the beach. there are two couches, they just stay, they could be on fire. and he walks a circle around them, just to feel his feet, just to see the room. and he jars his neck and it does not change.