stale cigarette smoke inside of that same warm, gray plastic box.
metal shavings on the floor of that same musty, old basement.
the muffled music falters a little as i crack open my eyes.
i sit up to a dusty cathode zombie flickering and hissing behind me.
there is no door; only one thin window in the corner of the ceiling.
my mouth tastes like pennies. my hands are bound by cables.
staring out the little window, i note that the grass is still overgrown.
falling back onto my makeshift bed, i think to myself:
how the hell did i get back in jersey?