The ground was wet and plastered with hair and greasy orange water. The white linoleum tainted with my sodden anger, I stalked out of the bathroom and into the kitchen. The room was dim, with a brownish hue that enveloped me quietly. The grayish ceiling glowed, dark and mildewed and bluish with unuse. The sky was unfairly proportioned with the unending stretch of black concrete that went for miles towards Mexico. I felt like a giant insect swinging my foreign, hair-like tentacles around me wildly as I stomped around the room without my hibitions. My thoughts and recollections of the day had swum unsuspectingly down the drain in a flurry of crazy madness. My towel was falling precariously down my chest, and I didn’t bother to pick it up on my way to my bedroom.
My speakers moved on, undaunted by my curious behavior. I turned up my music, swaying, distracted and slick with water. My head felt hot and sticky, my face was warm and red. My arms reached out, touching the walls, touching the ground, the hard wood brown like honey beneath my finger tips. So warm and inviting, so cool and delighting.

The phone rang, real and linear, calling my brain from the subconscious. The ceiling was bright and obnoxious, alive with the whirl of a clicking fan. Directionally challenged, I dressed my self and made my bed, rationing my energy and stumbling awkwardly down the hall toward the living room. Warm and soft I fell down on the couch and watched the muted television fumble and dance across the black screen. Watched as colors played wanton on the gray dripping ceiling like stalactites.
I yearned for Dimetapp or Metamucil, pushing on my stomach like deflating a balloon or folding a sleeping bag to fit in a box. I turned over and rocked to the light on the wall.

The hail pelted the roof mercilessly. Dirty before it ever hit the ground. Round and solid and dry. The tree swayed raucously in the wind. I put on my wooden slippers and walked outside to stand under the patio. The gray sky and the black pavement melted together, swirling into a dark hole of the long line of black cars on the interstate. The perlite in the grass flew up and down landing and jumping dodging the hail. I stuffed my sweaty palms into my pockets and tried to water the lawn.
I walked over to the garage door and opened, walked inside and sat down on the vibrating washing machine. The phone was ringing calmly in the other room, soft and constant. The brownish rafters hung cold silhouettes against the pale, vintage freezer. My fingers, red and purple, sought refuge in the lint case of the dryer as my feet swung carelessly between the sterile appliances. I threw the lint stubbornly into the wash sink and tried to shave my legs with the scissors.