The monotonous drone of a faucet leaking beads of water. One. Drop. At. A. Time.
Filling a smooth, opaque glass full of those water beads, discerning the raise of noise compiling in the cup.
Taking it into the living room of a small, cluttered apartment on the tenth floor. Standing at the large, open window, forehead against the glass and hearing the muffled sound of cars and stereos and shouts below.
The steady click of the turquoise clock above the bookcase, passing away the time that ushers in evening from the day.
Remembering the life outside the door, once stretching without effort, now gasping at shadows to bring a bit of color to the moment.
Running fingertips against the rough patched couch, the scratch of fabric to fingers a reminder that the ability to feel still exists.
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