The floors were dirty; couldn’t eat off of em like mom’s. A good sweep and mop was needed; he was neglecting his duties; chores didn’t matter much anymore. He just let things go.

Sitting in a chair with it’s fake leather peeling off, he could feel the filth on his feet; dust, cornchip bits, popcorn kernels, leaves from the dying house plant atop the greasy fridge; an accumulation had occurred.

A pile of unwashed laundry lay in the corner; days had gone by without underwear. The same sweats worn for weeks in a row. He didn’t eat or drink. None of his medications were taken. It was truly a state of decline. He was ready for it all to be over.

In the cabinet above the desk, sat bottles of Trazadone; a very strong sleeping aid. He had been saving up for months at a time. He was ready for the big sleep. It’s all he thought about. Sat around his rented room looking out windows and thinking, saying out loud, I don’t want to do this anymore.

He examined the drugs carefully. There was enough there to kill a horse; a thoroughbred euthanized; cut down past his prime.

So, he sat there holding onto prescription bottles. Looked out the window at St. Patrick’s church. Thought of his early childhood Bible teachings; a wooden rosary hung on his door.

He began to sing, humming aloud an old Dave Mason song, Feelin’ Alright…not feelin’ too good myself…, and he laughed. He laughed for a good spell. Fell asleep and awoke to the dark, the sounds of cop cars, ambulances, cats callin’, and bums down below yelling out at the world in a drunken rage.

Another day has passed, he thought. Another day has passed. And with that he was thankful.