Nothing I say is true. You are going to have to trust me on this one. I couldn't lie to you, even if I wanted to. The cops were outside. But not for him. Dim blue and red lights flickered intermittently upon the backdrop of once white walls which were now a dingy yellow. The old venetian blinds filtered the light, projecting a sort of spasmodic bar-code upon the wall. Some of the blinds slats were missing, while others were bent, evidence of an agnsty cat. Yet all of the once white blind slats were covered by a thick layer of oily gray dust, an amalgamation of human skin cells, cigarette smoke, and absolute neglect. As if they hadn't been touched for quite some time. The cat had died years ago. The painted-white sill underneath the window was covered in sticky brown rings, denoting where cans of often-spilled amber lager had at undisturbed for may days after consumption, only to be removed when there was no space for a fresh can to be placed. In some spots, the congealed and coagulated beer conjoined aluminum with paint, and when the cans were removed, paint parted ways with the window sill, splintering, revealing an older layer of white paint, causing it to have a pattern very similar to a leprous albino cheetah. The room itself was fairly small by many standards, the living room of a two story row-house in the dilapidated West Kensington neighborhood of Philadelphia. It had two windows, a front door, all of which faced East, along the tiny and tertiary Arizona Street. Opposite of the street side, it opened up into a small dining room, which opened up into an even smaller kitchen. Decorations in the room were sparse. The Occupant had never had much of a mind for interior design, thinking of them as meaningless ornaments and baubles, thinking that a person need not have a pleasing visual environment, as such things were vain luxuries, needed only by those lacking adequate imagination. The sole exceptions to this rule were a series of six queer clown paintings that he had collected over the years. The Occupant had always professed to friends that he enjoyed them only in an ironic fashion, but the truth was much more embarrassing. The occupant had always enjoyed paintings of clowns, particularly the ones he was able to purchase in backwoods flea markets and furniture auctions. It was never so much about the subject matter of the painting itself, but rather about the thought process of a person who would decide to create such a thing. What sort of person truly enjoyed clowns? Why would someone, particularly a person who was not a professional artist, as most of his clown paintings were obviously done by amateurs, decide to devote many hours of their own time to painting a clown? Was it the supposedly unequivocal joy that clowns were supposed to represent? Did they seek to drown out the unambiguous and mundane pain of existence for an idealized life among the Circus-Dwellers? Or was it a darker, more cynical take on reality, that lead people to take up the unorthodox habit of painting Clowns as a pastime? There was only one chair in the room, yet there were two futons. Both of the futons had, at a time several years prior, been used as a place for friends to sit, and occasionally sleep. Convertible, and comfortable, they had been a masterful use of form and function, but it was obvious to any impartial observer that they had not been used for the entertainment of guests in quite some time. The futons were devoid of people, but filled with the various refuse that the Occupant had generated during his degeneration. Crushed cans of Beer, Crushed packs of Cigarettes, and various crumpled, yet official papers, Confirmed the Occupants’ Crushed Dreams as well. The Occupant sat alone, in the only chair in the room. It was a blue armchair, one that he had inherited from his Grandfather. The Occupant came from good stock, and his Grandfather had quite good taste in minimalist furniture. Unfortunately, The Occupant had not shared his taste for minimalist cleanliness, or perhaps did not care, about his Grandfather’s favorite armchair. It was now stained, due to several spills of beer and other alcoholic liquids; and, moreover, several holes dotted the old and illustrious blue armchair, from places that The Occupants cigarettes had burnt through and penetrated its’ once immaculate blue upholstery. The once immaculately upholstered blue chair is now sitting between the two windows. It is facing the Television. It houses The Occupant, who is drunk and apathetic, close to the end of his rope. The Occupant wasn’t actively watching the Television, he just liked to have it on the default cable guide channel, as the voice of the default cable channel girl telling him what to watch made him feel as though someone cared about his existence. He listened to her. Her name is Sofia Asvoria. Blond and beautiful, with tits too big to be a model, and speech too robotic to be an actress, she spoke to him in a hypnotic fashion that let him know that he was not alone. “Check out these new Hit Singles by Sir LAY-DEE Shiva! Now Available On Demand!” His eyes began to droop, not thinking, but lusting, for a deep, sincere sleep. Hoping for a sleep full of falsehood and truth, lacking the depressive dullness of reality, the disdain of day, he began to nod off. “The next hit show that you’ll want to get addicted to? Turns out we know it, right here! It is the new ABC hit, called ‘Everything you Know is a Lie, and Only I can Help you          Escape’, tune in at 9/8 Central, to watch this new Hit Show!" The Occupant wakes with a slightly startled disposition. He feels as though someone has just spoken directly to him, although he knows not who. The Television is still on, as it always is, and Sofia Astoria, the default cable channel girl is still there, and she speaks only in strange platitudes and advertisements. “Be sure to check out the series finale of MTV’s ‘The Real World’. You won’t be able to see it anywhere else.” And then he fell asleep once again.