There is no sound of ice cream trucks, or ice cream trucks, or even the mild feeling of having once been excited by the idea of the ice cream truck on your corner. No cold slab of sweet milk fat will make your mouth feel better now that you have quite accidentally spent hours spitting out fetid corporate nonsense to doltish and disembodied voices at the window.
On the cot spread over the vent that is even now blowing up its stale wet breath into your hair, you will lie back and think about the little scarab corpses of the cockroaches that bred and lived and ate and died in your room only ever having known the furrows of the dusty woodgrain floor. You will, one day, deem it fit to brush back the litter and the hair off the ground into a corner, into a pan, and let the insects clatter into the bin. Walking barefoot, at last, barefoot, in your own room, you will feel beneath you the empty space of all the unoccupied 7 floors of filthy cellular living that other people abandoned long before it occurred to you that you might even consider the idea of leaving.
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