You are awake. It is Tuesday. The date? You can't remember. Definitely not pay-day. Not your birthday. Not Christmas. Unlikely Easter.
Your mouth is thick with sleep, and your stomach churns as acid sucks hungrily at its lining.
Good morning, world.
You're going to have to get through this one. One way - or another.
And tomorrow you will think the same thing.
And - the day after.
Repeat. Ad nauseam.
And then in some glorious deus ex machina - something amazing will happen and it will all become meaningful.
Yes. That's exactly what's going to happen.
To meditate, and ponder the range of available actions in life - request [Help]
[Help]
The world is a large and seemingly-complex place... that can be navigated by a few simple, repetitive, depressing actions.
To cast your lofty gaze upon the meaningless of it all, summon [Help].
To pat your pockets and take stock of your empire, invoke [Inventory].
To summarise the bizarre and swirling mass of obscure objects that confront you, you must [Look].
And, having seen - you must [Use] these things in order to bend them to your will.
Conversely - channel your inner rodent, and [Take] what you desire. You are - what you own!
To investigate a discrete object with the patience, care and obsessive-clutching of a methed-out watchmaker - simply [Look] at the thing. All will be revealed.
Implement some sort of sick Venn-modifications, and [Use] one item on another.
But remember ... the world is a broad affair. Sometimes you may have to [Kill], sometimes you may have to [Love] - but above all... you must [Triumph].
[Look]
You are in a beige room. The whole affair is... off-white.
The morning sun leaks in through the gap in the curtains.
An alarm clock provides a rusty, irritating percussion.
The bed is like some seething vortex of body fluids and minute particles of skin and hair. Your love for it is... disturbing at best.
To the north lies the hallway.
[Look at curtains]
The curtains are... fittingly... a tan color. You didn't buy them. You didn't hang them. They were here when you got here. And if they were burnt horribly tomorrow, you probably wouldn't replace them. Modesty has an effective radius. Yours is thirty feet.
[Use curtains]
You throw the curtains aside. The grandiose movement directly contrasts your shabby attire.
The light streams into the room. Outside, red brick building swell sickeningly across the vista.
[Use curtains]
They're as open as they're going to get. Plus, every touch sends out a cloud of dust. Better to minimize contact.
[Look at alarm clock]
You don't remember setting the time, or the alarm. If the power goes out, you'll probably just rely on your body clock. Or find a spouse to wake you up.
The numbers are composed of red lines. You've lost countless hours of sleep attempting to spell words with the lines.
Once you discovered that - if turned ninety-degrees - the time looked like a man with a beard - or a bow-tie - or glasses... and it freaked you royally out.
[Use alarm clock]
You haphazardly press buttons. Their labels have long since faded. The alarm stops. A minor success.
It is quiet now, but for the tittering of birds and the rushing of gray-water through distant drainpipes.
[Use alarm clock]
You hit some buttons but don't achieve much.
[Look at bed]
The bed is not off-white. It is not brown. You don't remember the motivation, or the action - but at some stage you bought an Asian-esque bedding set. You can't read the writing... nor do you know if the characters are Chinese... Korean... Japanese...
The whole acquisition likely stemmed from some perverted mid-afternoon dream.
But all-in-all, it's the most stylish thing in your house.
And that fact is depressing.
[Make bed]
You throw the covers about mindlessly. Somehow - stasis is achieved.
The bed has been silenced. Neutered. It sits in silent, defeated geometry. You feel as if you have destroyed something beautiful.
[Make bed]
You can't do anything more with the bed. You've heard of something called 'hospital corners' but you have no idea what that means.
[North]
The hallway is a strange entity. Oft-travelled, seldom-analysed. You have propped yourself against its doorframes ... cast your discarded clothing on its floor... but you don't think you could identify it given a collection of similar hallways.
[Look]
You are in the hallway. The walls are cream-coloured and cold.
The floor has been swept-clean by lazy footsteps.
A crooked hanging on the wall depicts a Japanese fisherman in front of a mountain. The lack of perspective bothers you.
To the north is the bathroom.
To the south is the bedroom.
To the west is the living room.
To the east is the spare room.
[Use hanging]
You straighten the wall-hanging. The newly-angled lines are no more sensible than previously.
A piece of oriental artwork hangs on the wall. The lack of depth or scale bothers you. That fisherman is going to have a heck of a time conquering that quantum nightmare.
[Use hanging]
The hanging is already straight. And you feel you would destroy the fabric of space by manipulating those bizarre lines any further.
[North]
The bathroom - a high-volume, high-tenure room in any household. Here is no exception. Whether it is pressing your skull into the tiles beneath the steaming showerhead, or digging ingrown hairs from your face with a safety-pin, this room has been the focal point of nearly all of your philosophical crises.
[Look]
You are in the bathroom. Brown tiles mostly cover the floor. Where tiles fail, gray grout triumphs.
The shower stands in the corner. It knows. And you know it knows.
The basin has two taps and a substantial amount of grime.
A mirror hangs above the basin, its edges slightly obscured by old shaving cream and soap residue.
The toilet is to your left.
A toothbrush rests on the basin.
A tube of toothpaste balances on the edge of the vanity.
A razor is perched in a filthy glass.
A can of shaving cream has fallen to the floor.
To the south - the hallway.
[Look at shower]
You have spent a disproportionate amount of time in this shower. The showerhead only reaches the base of your neck, but you've made an art of bending backward to rinse your hair.
[Use shower]
You take a hot shower.
You think about... nothing.
Or more... you attempt to think about nothing.
In reality... you obsess over the events of the previous day.
Before your minute failures and social faux-pas' drive you to a fatal anxiety attack, the water turns cold, and you dry yourself off.
[Use shower]
You don't feel much like an ice-cold shower. You doubt your heart could take it.
[Look at basin]
Consistently... world over... the basin is a disgusting place. Toothbrushes laying in puddles of dark water. Hair. Scum. Discolored cotton buds.
This is, predictably, no exception.
[Use basin]
You wash your face, rinse your mouth, scrub your nails and generally attempt to add a bit of sparkle to the whole affair.
[Use basin]
You're just distributing the dirt around now. There's a golden dirt-to-cleanliness ratio - and you're right at the intersection.
[Use toothbrush]
You clean your teeth. It never really feels like the day has started until you do that. Though you often wonder exactly what is dirtying your teeth during the alleged incapacitation of sleep.
[Use toothbrush]
Cleaning your teeth too much is bad for the enamel. Apparantely.
[Use toothpaste]
You take a mouthful of toothpaste and swish it around a bit. You don't feel much fresher.
[Use toothpaste]
With all the chalk and... freshness in that stuff, you barely want to aim it near your face, let alone risk repeated exposure to it.
[Use toothpaste on toothbrush]
You put the toothpaste on your toothbrush. You wonder if - in the bathroom accessories world... that is some sort of euphemism.
A pasted-toothbrush sits on the bench. You are concerned that the weight will drag it face-down into that thin layer of dirty water.
[Look at pasted-toothbrush]
It's all pasted-up and ready to go. You think you see a twinge of enthusiasm ripple through it. But that could be the lack of calories talking.
[Use pasted-toothbrush]
You lead a frenzied assault on plaque... bacteria... oral communism... all forms of mouth undesireables.
You feel like some form of bathroom Conan.
[Use pasted-toothbrush]
You are spent. This must be how Napoleon felt. Give the reported size of his meals - his tooth cleaning regime may have rivalled yours.
[Use razor]
You run the razor over your face, cultivating that - 'I haven't shaved today but I did shave recently' feel.
[Use razor]
You're tripping perilously close to vivisection as it is, hombre. Better put the shiv down.
[Use shaving cream]
Your put the shaving cream on your face and heat the razor under the tap. You hear a lot of talk about a 'lather' but you've no idea how to achieve it, or what it is. You imagine that pearl of wisdom is acquired from the Father. Ah - the glory of the modern family structure.
A warm razor sits on the basin. That ought to bring those stubborn hairs down to a manageable size.
[Look at warm razor]
Visibly, the razor is the same as it was before. Experience tells you that it should be hot now. But your eyes... they can't judge that. You're getting some severe sensory dissonance - look away!
[Use shaving cream]
You imagine that foaming behavior is achieved by dangerous gases. Potentially of ex-military applications. Better to leave it.
[Use warm razor]
You want to say... the razor slides through your stubble like a knife through butter.
And it would be true - it would - bar for the fact that the razor is months old, and has sliced well above its allotment of hairs.
At best, it forces the hair into grudging submission. The hair - along with your skin - your nerve endings - and your motivation.
[Use warm razor]
The ordeal is over - lets not repeat it until entirely necessary.
[Use toilet]
You sit - and you feel your body lighten. You stare at the floor, the wall, the roof...
Some sort of Zen trance has overtaken you. It's like being on some form of fecal pilgrimage.
You flush the toilet and make a vain effort to shield the basin from invisible airborne germs. But the lazy flailing of your arms betrays the futility of it all.
[Use toilet]
It's a relaxing, but fundamentally unpleasant experience. Let's not manufacture any fetishes, my dear.
[South]
*Hallway*
To the north is the bathroom.
To the south is the bedroom.
To the west is the living room.
To the east is the spare room.
[East]
The spare room was intended to be your sanctuary; the place where you could close the door and enter some Buddhist-styled trance and magically achieve all of your unrelated goals.
Of course, this didn't occur.
[Look]
The curtains in the spare room are perpetually open - and the whole affair has the cold and sterile feel of a new car.
A crowded bookshelf rests beside the window.
A set of free weights is in the middle of the room - and a flat-bench covered with expired employment contracts runs along the wall.
Three guitars are propped against the wall - in various states of string-ed-ness.
To the west is the ubiquitous hallway.
[Look at bookshelf]
When you just can't resist your O.C.D any longer - you organise and re-organise this bookshelf. Today - the books are arranged by tone, subject and your personal rating.
You're sure if you explored a bit - you would find a book you feel like reading.
[Use bookshelf] - adds [Your Brain] to inventory
You gradually scan each shelf - left to right. The disembodied plot highlights of a hundred books bust your synapses wide open.
You find a book! This is the book - you're sure of it.
[Look at book]
The book is titled 'Silas Marner' - by some individual named George Eliot. You've never read any of his books before - but you're feeling adventurous.
[Take book]
You take the book. Along with passing the time, it will assure that you look intellectual to any potential mates. All of your books have passed your own harsh cover-verification testing.
That is: Will the cover of this book look ridiculous if read in public?
[Use bookshelf]
The book-hunting process is a long and tiring affair. You doubt your tired vessels could handle another.
[Use book]
You don't have time to read it now. Even if you did - it would feel weird to just sit and read when there are so many other things to do.
[Look at weights]
Two dumbells and one barbell, along with a handful of weight plates. At one stage - your worked out nightly. Then you got a gym membership - and it became thrice-weekly. Now you write endless workout plans that you never follow.
Progress!
[Use weights] - Adds [Your confidence] to inventory.
You do a few uninspired arm curls - some shoulder presses. You stand on your toes and precariously lower yourself into a squat.
It feels good to get a little blood flowing.
But bittersweet that the cortisol and the seething anger will likely degenerate your muscles to the point of being thin black strands of pure organic hatred.
[Use weights]
You aren't tired, but you also aren't motivated. Maybe one day. When you get your diet right. When your sleep pattern is stable. When you aren't as busy.
Maybe - one - day.
[Look at guitars]
A long time ago you learned how to put together a few chords... a pentatonic minor scale... and gained the capacity to grow facial hair... and all of this aligned to make you believe that you were some breed of musician.
Well, here is the result of that. And clinically - you can still understand the compulsion to collect these ultimately-pointless articles.
And then... there's always that obsession with wood. You see raw wood... you must have it.
Only one of the guitars is in a playable state. It's a Fender Telecaster Thinline. Dual humbuckers. Semi-hollow body. You're so frightened of breaking it that you barely play it.
[Use guitar]
You pick out a rambling tune up and down the A Pentatonic minor scale... You've been favoring the same sequence of notes for nearly four years now.
You wish your knowledge of music theory was more advanced... and you toy with the idea of buying a book about it... but you know you'll only do it if that cute individual is working behind the counter at the bookstore.
And you haven't seen them in a while.
[Use guitar]
You're barely sustaining the illusion of aptitude here. You don't think your self-esteem could handle the strain of justifying your deviations from consonance.
[West]
*Hallway*
To the north is the bathroom.
To the south is the bedroom.
To the west is the living room.
To the east is the spare room.
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