Richard was sitting in the living room writing “empty” inside all of the scattered boxes. The sun began to peak through the curtains. Richard: sleep-deprived zone-setting man. When Richard noticed the bright light punishing him through his blinds, he draped a thick blanket over the window. He shot a glance at a cigarette burn in the blanket. He shot another. He looked at the boxes. He crouched behind the door and bolted it shut, moving the chain bolt 6 times back and forth in its frame, repeating with the dead-bolt, and finally finishing by locking and then unlocking the doorknob. Silence, apart from the hum of the microwave in the kitchen which had been frying his last hotdog for the past thirty minutes, was the only thing keeping Richard company in his small box-filled apartment. Richard sat back down to continue his work on the empty boxes.

            “Hold on a minute! If empty is written inside, does that mean the boxes are now holding contents? In fact, can I even comprehend emptiness? Is it-- No!" Richard Gasped. "Zero does not exist!” Richard: math kid reborn as Rongo Rongo. Richard reached up and touched the yellowed walls of his living room.”I am the wall, the space between the walls, and the inhabitants of the next apartment. I am god. God is I. God is we. God is.” As he walked around feeling the walls, he decided it was Aunt Lou who had moved him into the apartment complex after his last extended visit to the psychiatric ward. Aunt Lou: ghost of machu piccu. He didn’t know she was paying to keep him boxed up. He didn’t know her face. He didn’t know her smile. He didn’t know her toy poodle that frequently shit on the carpet.

            His hand brushed against the vibrating east wall of his kitchen. Vibrations from violent sex brushed his hand. “I am the violent sex in the next room. I am the empty-filled boxes in this room. I am assuming fatigue. I am God. God is I. God are we. God is.” The microwave exploded. Richard: completely flammable piece of thanksgiving hotdog.