He tosses and turns and calls out in his sleep. No one knows the battle he is fighting with his imagination. No one knows why he chose to live alone. Only he knows that his life falls apart as soon as his eyes shut. He fights his dreams each night in a relentless battle of emotional torment and unfair games. Each night he eventually succeeds in awaking his senses and he sits up with a gasp and walks down the hall to the kitchen. He acknowledges in his mind the pictures his mother had hung on the wall and the coffee stains on the carpet. He flicks on the kettle and finds the coffee in the fridge rather than the pantry, just like the many nights before. By the time he puts the coffee back into the fridge, the kettle is boiled. He pours the boiling hot water into the cup and tops it off with some cold water from the temperamental tap. He takes a sip and walks back down the hall. He moves the cup too much and the coffee laps over the ages onto the carpet. He grunts in acknowledgement but continues walking back to his bedroom. He sits at his desk and switches on his reading lamp. He puts his dripping cup in the corner on a countless stack of papers, letting the coffee soak through them. He put his shaky hand against his eyes and rubs them slowly then shakes his head and pulls out a piece of paper and starts scribbling words all over the page. After a while there was no where left to write so he grabs his coffee and gulps it down before putting the paper on top of the stack. He drags himself back to bed, ready to do it all over again.