Made in China – a blanket hanging over the chair –a glass – won at a carnival – folded towels –some photos –mascara stained pillow cases – a patch of sun – her body – the mattress – a bowl – a grocery bag lies exhausted. Ink blots hang from the walls. The air is still and heavy. It smells like damp cement and forgetfulness. Paper clips lay flat. Notes are stuffed under a pillow as if trying to hide her truths and confessions from herself. The candle is deformed. The wicks have drowned in the wax. There is a desk under lighters and pens and junk mail that never seems to go away. Leftovers from Tuesday night are stuck to the counter. Rocks outline a collage of photographs on the wall unit that is filled with books, bootleg cds and dust.. The cd skips from over exposure. A photo of her childhood backyard sits in the center next to the word heart and a quote by Helen Keller. There is a red playhouse next to the fence. Tic-tac-tow with bean bags faces the brown and white lawn chairs. Now forever in photos and memory. The closet door hinge squeaks every time it moves. The TV flickers with a high-pitch sound. Sheets are torn. Words screamed. A car pulls up. A judge makes a verdict. A doctor performs surgery. The girl with a modest look tries to sell a product. The male host wants to know how often orgasms are faked. Gun shots are blasted. A woman gives birth. A green monkey dances on a tv. A boy flies in the sky with a cape. A girl dies.