As soon as I tentatively opened the door, I knew there was someone else in the room. He was sitting on the floor, juggling eyeballs, dead drunk.

That's how I met my roommate.

We twisted every dimension possible, which made it easy to lose yourself and anybody else there. In the room. It was nicely furnished until the holy fire blasted the better side of the window wall. The 550V power supply was always in use, I connected it to my spine with the wire someone left.

Someone who lived there before me.

Someone I never knew.

The sooner the better. They say "the sooner the better" and I made "soon" sound like "forever". We all know how to invert reality. We know, it's simple magic.

As soon as the room wal brimful of cry, the doors opened and the corridor was flooded by fear. Rage. Hatred. Mischief. Pain. Anger. Hopelessness. Intoxication.

Intoxication of all sorts made us bear that better.

You know what, tongue-twisters saved the world. They did it once and they're gonna do that again. The burning cigarette is my only vital sign. But you'd better not touch it.

The overboard temperature is creeping in. Please, fasten your seatbelts and press your bellybuttons.

I was watching "Stay" when he came in and announced the apocalypse yet to come. Shit, that was two to one, I could never deal with things of such sort. I surely know how it is, to escape in the sсriрt holes, but this was not the case.

The ultimate truth is: "I scare them". They talk to me for fifteen minutes and go home.

Whatever it means. They change their location. Addresses. E-mails.

The baldheaded guy was squeezing some girl into the sofa. I hung loose from another shot of gin. The sofa was too small for both of them, so he was on top. All yo gotta do is just be.

You needn't talk. You needn't think. And - bang - there's a pretty girl on the sofa with your dick inside her.

I was sitting, watching them. Couldn't take my eyes off them. The party was over. He was the winner. I were the loser. He kissed her and sucked her in.

Good luck. Bad luck. All you have to do is be like him. The least thing you want to do is be like me. I thrashed my hand into my back pocked and tossed out a battered cigarette.

They say I do something wrong, but I don't know what exactly they mean.

I light up.

Back home. The body hung in mid-air. My roommate's corpse opened its eyes in a greeting. His half-rotten hand flung into the air as the mute shrill of "Hi-how-are-you-doing" blasted the windows open.

It was a fuckup of a morning.