I see nothing but tin picture frames surrounded by chipped pottery in this place of faux life. 
My eyes have grown tired from being dragged back and forth, my words are now calm. 
A chilly breeze passes by in this place of artificial homeliness filled with unfamiliar clinks and clanks, screeches and blurs.  
Neo-retro signals spread across low, simple, brown sugar cubes. Visions appearing in temporary fluid places laced with my past: 
My son sleeping on my shoulder as I carry him through a park. 
The eyes of my true love looking down at me from a painting whose name I regret not remembering. 
Rudimentary tears covering my hands as I let go of my fear, my weakness, my pain. 
As I return, grotesque black fouls with orange beaks look at me from the walls.

I hear the water outside; it tells me tales of multicolored tides that bring springs to the desert. 
I hear I cannot live without water; I cannot live without it churning inside me, without it being beaten across my body. 
The cup is now empty; my black, bitter, weak muse now embraces me. 
I step outside and the image of God appears to me in a flock of seagulls.  
Fascinated, for that brief moment, I knew I would never be truly alone. My momentum, as I pass through life, increases even in the calm of sleep. 
I walk home, at peace with the evening, with the chilly breeze and with my life as it goes on.