The Aftermath

Maybe third time's the charm?  This second one was lukewarm water, in a sea of floating debris.  It reminded me so much of the first time, the musty smell of dried sweat, the cramped space, the humble juvenile beginnings.  I somehow feel open to you while still retaining my real identity, the one where I'm friends with your professor.

I am good with detachment, but was difficult to concentrate with all the flotsam and jetsam from the surroundings, the objects that litter the top bunker, the wet towels and blankets, the pink and purple wrapping paper made into the door's wallpaper, the brown carton attached to the wall and made like a cork board  the periwinkle cartolina stapled on the ceiling to hide the water stains, the yellow spray paint on the walls that made it look like a cheap circus booth.  And the shared toilet was g-h-a-s-t-l-y.

Your mother was right.  Thankfully you'd be moving to your own unit soon.