The arsenal of used syringes scattered on the kitchen counter. The months’ worth of empty insulin vials glistening all around them. The grocery list of food my doctor has promised will kill me. The sweaty glass of special edition Nick Offerman Lagavulin staining the end table beside me. The bookshelf, crowded with urns full of past cats’ ashes: Ajax, Echo, Luna, and Midnights 1 through 3. The Papillon in my lap licking my bloody knuckles. The hole I punched in the wall next to the TV after watching the evening news. The blinking cursor in the empty text box below my ex’s message asking if I’m ok. The apocalyptic cries of Pink Floyd’s “Great Gig in the Sky” rattling the windows. The dust moats glittering in shafts of dusk light slicing through Venetian blinds. My fragmented shadow stretching farther and farther across the dusty hardwood floor, always running away.