The head of the vacuum cleaner is tilted against the ancient piece of used office furniture I got from my father to put the TV set on. The kitchenware has been split halfway between the upper door of the wardrobe in the bedroom, alongside the p*rn DVDs, and the cardboard boxes scattered by the living room. The microwave oven rests silently over the desk on the opposite side of the room, facing the couch.
The memo tacked for a week to the elevator wall notices something or another about the replacement of the iron plumbing with brand-new copper ones for the kitchen area. Which means they are breaking through the bricks and the tiles just below the laundry sink in every apartment in order to get the pipes replaced.
I’m sitting on the couch saying nothing, and not really paying attention to whatever is on TV. I’m dressed in black sweatpants, dark gray winter socks and a light gray sweatshirt with the hood pulled all the way over my head. I have my legs bent in front of me, they’re being held together by both my arms, feet on the couch. I’m thinking nothing, contemplating maybe the wall at the most- the entirety of my kingdom- and leaning my chin against the cleft formed by bringing my knees against one another. I’m completely still save for the occasional mild rocking of my whole body back and forth, back and forth, back and forth every now and then.
I haven’t been keeping track of time. I think I might have been like this for a couple of hours, maybe more. My tongue tastes like dry parchment or sandpaper.

All the bricks and tiles inside my head have long since been broken. My conscience floats freely well-above the debris; my superego creeps and crawls from the wreckage below.
Ultracool day-glo liquid light runs wild through the wiring spread web-like and un-symmetrically across my brain. Brand-new pipes, see?
Do you? See, I think I can almost taste the synapses misfiring deep inside here. How odd is that- just how more odd is that?

Later, standing up naked under the hot shower with both my arms outstretched against the cold, steamy wall and my head bent down between them, I’m laughing at myself as I come up with funny names for comic book characters I could use, that no one’s ever thought of. The sleeves of the light gray sweater draped over the sink like the skin of a dead animal are smeared with half-digested tangerines and the tiny pieces of rice spewed after I started hyperventilating.

It takes me about forty minutes soaking under the hot water to finally settle on my new superhero name: Lexotan Lad. That’s what I’m thinking of calling myself.