Chapter One

As he sat down, looking at the yellow tinged walls, one can’t help but wonder. Is this a matter of cigarette smoke clinging to the poorly gloss painted surface? Overtime, does the miniscule weight of these smoke particles build up and drag each other downwards. Never quite seems to reach the bottom. His attention shifts as he gets comfortable. The cold reminder of a room, and seat, less occupied. It feels lonely, yet secure. Don gets comfortable and his attention shifts upward. Perhaps it is a matter of his business being displayed on the roof like the contents of one’s head after inebriation and firearms. Why is everything so yellow in here all the time? The mystery almost seems to drip down upon him, but never does. Does shower vapor then reanimate, reinvigorate, and force a collection of smoke, and shit, to threaten rain? What keeps it clung to the generations of cheap paint? Something does. Why have we not figured an alternative? Like sheets. The walls should be sheets to be taken down and vigorously cleaned. But nothing changes.

"It's for the best nothing changes. At least not during this exact bowel moment." Don internalized.

“I need some new lighting in here,” Don mutters to himself.

That thought soon gets krinkled like a newspaper trying to find a can. Nature’s unrelenting starin takes over. The mission is clear. Why can’t the body take over more often. Life would be so much easier if the body would just step in more. Don now, mouth almost ear to ear, eyes squinting, sweating, face turning red.

“Why can’t more things be this involuntary?” He thinks, but does not dare speak.

One does not speak when the body takes over. Satisfied, he collects himself and reaches for the commonly silver colored handle. Poof. It’s all gone now, except the blaring reminder, on the walls, on the ceiling, and in the air.