Snow has covered the television screen for more than two hours before you notice enough to turn the volume down. No. You weren’t sleeping, not in the conventional sense. In that sense, you’re awake. But really you’ve been sleeping for the last eight months, as you stumble through crosswalks against red lights as cars narrowly miss bringing your sudden demise. And voices fade away with them, shouting flat profanity like lines delivered by nervous amateurs in a play. The phone rings and after the seventh ring you pick it up. You look up at the clock. It’s three. In the morning or afternoon? The stranger in your hand stops waiting for you to answer. Hi. Did you call, inquiring about the purchase of a Bowflex home gym? Yes, you answer. I wanted to know if it will make me count. What? I want to be happy again. You get the dial tone. You look down at the phone and it slowly dawns on you that it’s in the other room and that you’re naked with drying vomit all over your chest and stomach and the door is wide open and the wind is blowing through your house. And you’re sitting on something warm and viscous. And it doesn’t really matter if it came from you or someone else. It’s three a.m. and you’re staring at the television.