You open your eyes. You open them just because you hurt. Every time you swallow, your saliva stings your throat. As if you had swallowed a piece of glass. If you don’t swallow, your mouth will become dry and your tongue sticky. You cannot breathe anymore. There’s a ringing. In even intervals. You pick up the receiver. A kind male voice speaks in a language you don’t understand. You try to thank him for his concern, but instead of your voice, an inarticulate wheezing comes out. You open your eyes and stare at the ceiling. Nothing. You are not thinking.

A glass of milk, six oysters and a bottle full of pills on your nightstand. The steady buzz of the air conditioner. Neon lights. Quiet sounds of objects sliding slowly. Near. Not far. There’s probably a room nearby.