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It’s 11:07. It’s too bright. I don’t want to come out of the bed. I pull the blanket on my head. It’s better now. I don’t want to get up. Why am I here? There should be a mistake. I have nothing to do here any more. I want to go back to sleep, and dream. That dream, that I was in a big garden, with huge leaves, car-size frogs, and people hanged dead by ropes tied to the clouds. It was so calm. All I had to worry about was that one person who was coming to hang me too. It was quiet; people were swinging from their necks and every now and then a frog would jump. I’ve been betrayed by life. Everything has been a beautiful gift box for me, but empty. When I went to get the gift, to fill the boxes up, it was so out of shape that I couldn’t put it in any of the boxes. Now the boxes are getting old and the gift is becoming useless. I’m suffocating. There is too much air around here. I feel it going in. I hate it. I hate a lot of things. I hate almost everything and everyone. I’m tired. I’ve been tired since I was 17. I’ve been dragged and moved since I was born, but it was only at 17 that it hit me. I don’t want my toes out of the blanket. I want to stay here. Please just don’t talk to me. Let me be , as little as possible.