Somewhere else,

morning tries valiantly for a Madonna-like vogue, but only manages a half-hearted arthritic pose.  Her feeble 6 am light singles out a man sleeping on a worn mattress; his spine entwined in the beginning Monday.  Silent alarms activate his bleeding ulcers and there is a manical quality to his movements as he jerks awake and lurches to the bathroom.

Only the colors in his head keep him warm in the tepid shower.  Graphic gratification is notheless minimal.  Even orgasm has a grainy low budget film quality.

Minutes later,

razorblade coffee hits his raw mouth and fuels latent anxiety.  The instantaneous effect is more reflexive than chemical, and early morning tremors begin in his extremities.  His breath turns to anarchy.  Drags on a stale cigarette calm shaking long enough for him to pop the lid on a small auburn bottle. He swallows four pills, two blue, one hexagonal, one to be taken with food.  Grudgingly following the fine print, he slowly chews hard toast found on the counter.  He contemplates the black bag under the sink, but doesn't vomit.  

Sitting at the table,

he scribbles what's remembered of last night's dreams in the margin of a bible, King James edition.  Before the ink dries, he stubs the book out in a chipped ash tray. Knees pop as he rises from the chair that matches the table that matches the cupboards.  He swings the door open and walks out, wearing yesterday's shirt.