Below my window, the people who sleep on the streets are gone. In the weekend daylight, it’s another city entirely. People chat with friends, stroll hand in hand with their lovers, buy armfuls of flowers. Everyone else seems to know what to do with their free time: shopping, getting high on a blanket at the park, going to yoga, slacklining between palm trees. I can hear the fullness of other lives through the window, a party I wasn’t invited to, a distant parade.

I do nothing. I sit on the sofa, paralyzed by my own mind, my apartment walls a coffin. The black hole gets closer, opens wider, blotting out most of the living room.