I have been awake for four days now.
I have seen the light drain from the apartment like blood from a corpse and then, in the early hours, slip back in like a guilty spouse returning to the marriage bed.
On day one, a glass, trailing water smudges across the polished wood, moved 5cm towards the edge of the coffee table and fading chair.
On day two, I discovered an unlit cigarette in an ashtray on the floor beneath the bookshelf. I have never smoked.
On day three, liquid light slipped in under the front door, like some lost organism looking for a way to a familiar place. I reached for it, entranced by the golden substance. At the point of contact, it silently withdrew.
Day four – shouting in the lobby.