(((The dreams crept up quitely to him as he slept. Cold, and uncomfortable, and colder still. As he dreamt, he realized that he in the middle of a mild Philadelphia winter. Grey and dull and surrounded by a public city park. In this dream, he slept underneath a cold blanket, on a park bench bed, something that folded out onto a terrible sterile mattress. One of the blue ones they used to use for mental patients. But for some reason, it was only one pole that held him up. And he was surrounded by other people, all in the same situation. "My Dad actually cares about me. He bought me these speakers. I won't be here much longer" The man to his left was young. Maybe only 22. He seemed to brag about his existance to everyone else. Maybe his father did care about him. But he kept on telling people about how his father cared about him. After all, his father did buy him those high-end speakers that fit underneath his cot in the winter park. But, after all, this was but a dream))) The dreams slowly faded into an awakening. Although the dreams had been bad, the awakening had been worse. There was nothing the occupant could’ve wished for more, other than to go back to sleep, to face the Dragons he had seen while he slept. But, no matter how hard he tried to doze off in his armchair again, sleep would not come. The occupant had to chose the sin he battled with today, and it was not sleep, not anymore.         The choice was simple: Guilt, Fear and Admittance of his Worthlessness, or Alcohol. The latter choice called to him, like a distant, but beloved ex-girlfriend, ready to take him back despite all of his shortcomings.         He rose, out of the armchair, like a liquor-soaked Phoenix, ready to burn himself once again.         Viewing himself like only a depressed, but once promising, alcoholic could, he immediately discerned that he would need a shower, and perhaps shave, or else the people at the liquor store would not take him seriously at 10 in the morning. They would think of him as some sort of deadbeat, and that was the last thing he needed.         The Occupant striped out of his well-worn clothing, and threw it into the neat pile of well-worn clothing he had going in the corner. He told himself that he would get around to washing the pile soon, perhaps after he went to the liquor store, but in the back of his mind, he knew that was a lie. Perhaps the even more remarkable thing was that he knew it was a lie in the front of his mind as well. The Occupant was adept at deceiving himself from his own intentions.         Trudging up the short staircase of his tiny Kensington domicile, completely nude, he felt something that approximated true guilt, but he felt guilty about that feeling, because True Guilt mandates Repentance and Change. He knew Repentance all too well, but he also knew that Change was not possible, not for him.  He began to think about the circumstances of why he was alone, and how he had ended up trotting this lonesome and despicable path.         Once, people had appreciated The Occupant for who he was. None of his former friends or acquaintances could ever deny that he was funny, charming, and erudite. Perhaps his best quality of all was his good-natured cynicism coupled with his intelligence. The Occupant never failed to call out bullshit when he saw it, but he was never mean or vindictive about the fact that he saw it when others could not.         But that was the worst of him. The Occupant was not hated without reason. He was Vain, and Weak, failing to reach out to those who wanted to help him. He was often crippled by Guilt, Guilt felt for Nothing. Self-obsessed and obsessed with his insecurities, he often failed to do right by those who cared for him. He could’ve, should’ve, been better to those around him.         Regardless, he trudged up the stairs, around the minuscule landing, which held stacks of books that he should’ve unpacked months ago. Guilt would not help him now, but perhaps a hot shower would.         The Bathroom was small, cold, and damp. It was filled with old razors, perhaps one more shave left in their dull blades, which should be thrown out. The Occupant only ever needed to edge his beard, anyway. He turned the shower on, at its’ highest temperature, plugged the bathtub drain, and sat on the toilet, to think.         This was a habit he had developed years ago. Let himself steam his mind clear. Let the thoughts of last night drift away, as the effervescent steam of the shower surrounded him, drifting in and out, like so many Ghosts from his past.         It never worked.         The Occupant sat down upon his toilet, attempting to take a shit, only to stumble directly into his steaming-hot shower. He sat down towards the back of his bathtub, raised his knees towards his chin, and cradled his shins tightly by wrapping his arms around them. He embraced himself, because he knew that no other human would today. Rocking back and forth, he let the scolding-hot water pour over him, partially as a ritual of cleansing, partially as a form of self-inflicted punishment. Thinking to himself, he briefly thought that perhaps today would be a better day than the last. Perhaps he could cleanse himself of his past sins, disregard his leftover baggage, and start life anew once again. The bright fluorescent light of the bathroom seemed hopeful, the hot water invigorating, and the thick, obscuring steam promised him the possibility of forgetting a regretful past in the fog of time. Nothing like a hot shower to start your day.