The world stops here. Time rests in light that drinks slow in the shadows; a murkiness that makes minutes water, floods the walls and the bed sheets with fluid voracity. It is easy to fall down here, under the plastic constellations that breed on the ceiling. Simple to bleed and laugh and die on love-infested carpet where we once spread our ivory skin and inhaled incense smoke. We are near each other now and the dim lights make me blink. I want to see him more clearly... he isn't looking at me. His head is bowed and his hands are shaking, throbbing against the bed sheets.