A man stumbles into his house, grabbing his chest and dropping his keys on the way in. He makes his way onto the soft, cushioned sofa, glancing at the divorce papers on the dining room table, and turns on the television. He cracks open a can of beer, takes a small sip and puts it down. It's cold and pitch black outside, other than the occasional dimly lit street light. The coffee table is littered with pills, empty bottles, crushed newspapers, and cigarette butts. Photos of old loved ones lying on the mantle, covered in dust. The man has his eyes glued to the television, mumbling words to himself. The walls are covered in stains, the telephone dangling from the wall, next to the bare and almost empty calendar, reading “August.” It was not August, but rather November. The man slowly starts drifting in and out of sleep, snoring loudly, until he eventually wakes up the next morning, covered in greasy stains, with just a faint glimpse of what had happened or how he had even got home.