May 5th: 'You're a nihilist, Henry! You don't believe in nothing, Christ, you shot your own mother.' Feathers from the torn pillow stick to the teeth; I pull the dirty pink sheets over my head to shut out the sun which has found its way through cracked walls. I remember now that I unplugged the phone yesterday. Yesteryear? Clients tend to think 3 am is business hours and the hideous voices are like scissors through soft skin. Rash, rashes, yes that too. Two pink immigrants from Turkey are reading aloud from the NY Times outside my window. Agents? I can't tell. I plug the phone in and order a taxi.