I’m starting to live in the den. The habit of staring at the ceiling fan’s rotating blades, or watching the attendant as she walks away from me after administering a dose, is like watching the backs of my eyelids during sleep. I stare at the oriental hangings, which sway in the breeze by the window, for hours, until the attendant notifies me that the bar closes in five minutes.
The pod is in my lap again, staring up at me. It wants to show me another scene. The cycle never seems to end.