I am at home. Lying down, reclining, doing nothing. I can feel the intertia dripping out of my pores. My back feels uncomfortable, my body long been in the same idle position, reluctant to shift. It's always like this on the weekends, with nothing to do except rot. I feel a distant sense of guilt, something telling me to get up and make myself useful, to stop hogging resources and be a productive member of society. I am suddenly aware of the immense dustiness of my room. The surfaces are caked with dust, spiderwebs filling every small corner of the room. The walls look dirty, stains accumalated from years of people living inside them. I can clearly hear the mechanical whirring of the washing machine, its vibrations tingling on my feet as they rest on my bed. I can hear the distant melody of some neighbour playing some rap music, but from this distance the blurred words and the beat like a heart beating, something about it feels ethreal. alive, almost. Humans, they make homes, they live in them, and they leave their mark. I fi