Eleven pm. The pen clutched to the paper scrawled words he didn’t want to say. Fueled by coffee and hate. The bags under sea blue eyes were comparable to body bags. Each weighing 150 pounds. Underlined words explaining decisions, actions, and thoughts. A budding insomniac showing promise in nothing but a certainly doomed future. “Wouldn’t it be so wonderful?” he muttered under his breath “to have no care in the world” The utopia of a such promised land was so far away, yet so close. Reaching it alone felt unattainable. Signing checks with his self medicated prescription of espresso and Marlboro cigarette’s. The utopia, was home. Home was attainable. When the twenty two hour work day was complete. Signed. Designated. Filed. Categorized. To pack his briefcase and unknot his tie was heaven. Walking down the hallway to the elevator was even better, as he was that much closer to his dream. The elevator slowly crept down the 71 pit stops necessary before the parking garage. Arrival was imminent. To drive 45 minutes south to get into a house of people that love the idea of you, but don’t really know you. The house wasn’t a home. It was a hotel he went to every night. Is it worth it?