In every room I walk into, there’s a moment between stepping through the door and doing whatever I came in there to do, where I wonder what that same room would look like if I killed myself in it’s center. If the contents of my head were blown in every imaginable direction by an upward double barrel shotgun blast. If my mouth would twist open and ricochet off a back wall, or my slit wrists would drain into an air conditioning unit imbedded within the floor. Weather the noose would split the ceiling with the fall. Killing oneself is some morbid post modern redecoration tactic, one which is the only true absurdist’s friend.